


The Mountain

by daphnerunning, Galiko



Series: Pillars and Pinnacles [1]
Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 03:51:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 35
Words: 289,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1372876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Galiko/pseuds/Galiko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU in which Rikkai wins the Kantou Tournament instead of Seigaku.</p><p>That's where it starts--with Echizen Ryouma struggling to come to terms with his loss against one stressed, harried Sanada Genichirou. Sanada has a still-recovering captain/boyfriend to deal with, and Yukimura, as per usual, is a less than willing invalid. Rikkai still attempts to flourish, but Yukimura finds it easier said than done to return to his former glory. Ryouma, meanwhile, finds tutelage in one Atobe Keigo, but faces his own demons in the form of doubt, something he's never felt before. </p><p>Tezuka, however, always doubts, and regrets his decisions regarding leaving for his recovery, but to become captain in the first place. </p><p>End game pairings include Yukimura/Sanada, Atobe/Tezuka, Yagyuu/Niou, Kintarou/Ryouma, and a few others. Mentions of one-sided Yuuta-->Fuji, Fuji-->Tezuka, Fuji/Ryouma, and others.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sanada, Yukimura, & Rikkai

Waking up means a great number of irritations and frustrations and enough pain to fell a small army, and Yukimura makes a valiant effort to resist for as long as possible. 

 

At least there isn't any _beeping_. That's gone, and it means that he has a much better chance of getting sleep. Or maybe that's the medication, or the fact that everything feels odd and groggy and disconnected from all sides of everything… 

 

It's inevitable, though, because one can only sleep for so long. He's found that out very well over the past few months, and it's all the more apparent when his back throbs like someone took a dozen knives to it (they probably did).

 

Moving his head is a step that he decides to take, and Yukimura ends up with his face in something warm and soft that definitely isn't a hospital pillow. It smells like soap and clean, masculine sweat and the texture somehow registers immediately as _that's a jersey, probably Sanada's, yes that's a good thing to wake up to._

 

His fingers twitch, and there's something oddly cold and hard already pressed into his palm. _Lifting_ whatever it is is a step that seems a little beyond him at the moment, but, hm. It would be pretty good to be able to pick things up properly again, sooner rather than later. 

 

Movement wakes Sanada immediately, as hair-trigger as he’s been for the last six hours. He blinks bleary eyes, all too aware that he’d held out for longer than he’d intended, hoping he hadn’t woken Yukimura. The nurses had assured him that everything had gone well, but being assured of it and seeing Yukimura open clear brown eyes again are two different things.

 

He clears his throat gently, sitting up and trying not to harrass. “ _He might be groggy_ ,” the nurses had told him fondly. Always fondly, because everyone loves Yukimura. 

 

 _Everyone_.

 

Sanada starts to say, “We won,” but it gets lost in his mouth, and he says instead, “Welcome back, Seiichi.”

 

"Nn." That's definitely coherent enough of a response. At least, it is at first, until cracking his eyes open into dim light makes everything some into clearer focus. Yukimura blinks a little more, thinks about sitting up, banishes the idea when he draws a single breath, and curls his fingers tighter around the thing in his hand. 

 

"…You weren't there before the surgery." It's less accusing, more petulant. When his vision focuses and he can actually, _really_ see Sanada's face, everything sort of makes him want to melt back into the bed. Sitting up isn't necessary, Sanada's right _there_ , anyway. "Slowpoke." 

 

The guilt racks Sanada at that. He’d _promised_. Just now, he can’t think of anything he could have done worse than let Yukimura down like that. He bows, a formal, humble motion. “What I have done is unforgivable,” he murmurs. “Akaya and Renji will also be punished for playing drawn-out matches they didn’t even win.”

 

"Was a joke. A bad one. No bowing." Yukimura's eyes lid, and he finally summons the strength to drag the thing-in-his-hand up. His thumb slides over the cold metal, over the familiar engravings-- _Kantou Regional, First Place_ \--and something unclenches in his chest. Ah, but to replace that, an odd lump in his throat that makes it kind of difficult not to blindly reach out and grab for the edge of Sanada's sleeve. "You _won_." 

 

“You can’t be _that_ surprised,” Sanada mutters, flashing back to a little of that terror he’d felt when Echizen had stood up again...and _again_...before finally missing that last ball. “Tezuka wasn’t even playing. And I promised I’d bring it to you.”

 

"You were late," Yukimura accusingly mutters, hugging his medal to his chest one handed. God, it hurts to move, but he grits his teeth and slowly maneuvers himself onto his side…mostly. He feels about as graceful as a freight train, but it isn't as if Sanada gives a damn. "I got worried. I want your jersey as a blanket, I'm cold." 

 

“Careful, careful,” Sanada cautions. He’s on his feet in a heartbeat, trying to get the blankets properly over Yukimura, draping his jersey over him as well, unable to resist nuzzling into his hair for the briefest of moments. “Apart from...well, I know surgery in those places will always be rough, but do you feel any different?” His eyes go to Yukimura’s hands, looking for that telltale quiver he’s gotten depressingly used to over the last several months.

 

"I," Yukimura announces, still clutching at his medal like it's a lifeline, "am enjoying my morphine. But I could enjoy it more and I am pretty sure I can feel places I forgot were places. That's good. I think." He half-reaches up, making another grab for Sanada, but it mostly ends up in a sort of misplaced pawing at the front of his chest. "I want to know about the matches." 

 

Sanada shifts forward, trying to help Yukimura get what he wants, vaguely nonplussed when it seems like what he wants is to paw a little. Well, it’s not hurting anyone, and there’s lots of morphine currently occurring, so there’s no harm done. He leans forward, gently stroking through Yukimura’s hair, a luxury he’s decided to allow himself. “Marui and Jackal won their match six games to one. Niou and Yagyuu won, of course, but they dropped four games. Renji lost embarrassingly, and Akaya lost brutally.” He exhales hard, and admits, “I barely won. It was too close. That boy Tezuka found is a terror on the court.”

 

Sanada is close enough for him to curl his fingers into his shirt now, and that's exactly what Yukimura does, pleased that he can grip quite tightly, no matter how much effort it takes. On top of that, Sanada's hand feels good in his hair, and he lets his eyes flutter half-shut. "You still won." Eight months ago, he wouldn't have said that. He would have scolded Sanada up and down for dropping a single game, would've made Akaya run laps until he was sick, suspended Yanagi, maybe, and given Niou and Yagyuu a talk that would have lasted at least an hour while going over the recordings of their match… 

 

…but--"Asked you to win, and you did," Yukimura murmurs, exhaling a slow, measured breath. "Even when I wasn't there." 

 

“We’re still the champions,” Sanada exhales, and slumps a little over the bed. He’s not exactly in the _best_ of health, after that game, but it seems churlish to complain about scrapes and bruises and strains when Yukimura is...well.

 

“Sixteen years running. Still the reigning kings, as promised. Now you just get well, and we’ll take the Nationals for the third year running.”

 

He reaches out a hand, squeezing Yukimura’s. “Just like our dream.”

 

Yukimura grabs back tighter still, and in one solid tug--or that's what he thinks it is, but it's really not, it's kind of a wobbly yank at best and whoo, the world is spinning oddly with that much effort being exerted--he tugs Sanada half onto the bed. "I would like to be joined by the vice captain of Rikkai's reigning kings properly," he giddily says, very certain this is all logical, "because you are warm and perfect and I'm really happy."

 

Is there anything Sanada can say to that? He doesn’t think so, and gives up on even trying in favor of sliding onto the cramped little hospital bed, strong arms encircling the slender form. “You,” he murmurs, very pleased as he tucks his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder, “are not hooked up to anything.” Neither of them have to say the obvious--that it’s been months since that was true.

 

Squeezed into a tiny bed with his back throbbing and his medal-- _their_ medal--sandwiched between them, Yukimura is pretty sure that he actually died during his surgery and went to paradise instead. He stuffs his face into Sanada's neck, breathing in deep. "Mmnn. I'm not beeping. I hate beeping. Will you stay with me until they yell at us?"

 

Sanada hates getting yelled at by authority figures, but not as much as he’s hated hearing machines “BEEP” about Yukimura’s constant lack of health for eight months. He nods, tightening his arms, being mindful of anything that might have happened during the surgery. “I doubt we’ll get to that. The rest of the team will want to come in and let you know or apologize, depending.”

 

"Too noisy right now." He blames it all on Sanada for being warm and comfortable to lie against. He's usually very sociable, but Sanada is better than morphine at the moment, and that's not something he wants interrupted any time soon. "And," Yukimura dimly adds, yawning into Sanada's shoulder, "you're my favorite, anyway. Genichirou, I'm pretty sure I have _toes_ again." 

 

“I’m pretty sure,” Sanada murmurs, something almost like a smile at the corner of his lips, “you’re going to have a tennis racquet in your hand by the end of the day. Don’t be mad at me if I try to slow you down a little. I can see your stitches from here, and they look…like you wouldn’t want them put in again.”

 

"I could have a tennis racquet right now. I could," Yukimura mutters sleepily. "But don't talk about my stitches, I'm going to have a scar and it's gross."

 

“It’s a mark of honor.” Sanada can’t think of anything more impressive or beautiful than the way Yukimura’s back will look when he’s whole and well again. “If you promise not to overexert yourself, I’ll take you to a game tomorrow morning.”

 

He's awake now. Mostly, at any rate, or as much as the drugs will let him when he groggily lifts his head. "Define overexert." 

 

“Doing anything the nurses tell you not to. I want you to be the healthiest Yukimura you’ve ever been for the Nationals in three weeks.”

 

"I'm going to be the best tennis player," is his grumpy rebuttal to that, and Yukimura flops his head back down. "Right. I've got this. Even if you just took me to watch practice, that'd be…mm. Yes, really good." 

 

“Don’t be stupid. You’re going to every practice. I don’t mind carrying you myself. You’re our captain.” Sanada nuzzles slightly into thick dark hair, breathing in hospital chemicals and wishing he could remember what Yukimura smelled like before. “You’ve always been our captain.”

 

"Gonna walk. Don't carry me, that's weird. I told you, I'm pretty sure I've got toes," Yukimura insists, sliding his hands up against Sanada's chest to gently curl his fingers against him. "You were a good captain while I was gone, though," he quietly adds. "I knew you'd take care of everything. You did. Thank you, Genichirou." 

 

“I had my doubts.” It’s a quiet confession, and one that Sanada isn’t thrilled to make. “It’s not the same, without you. Everything is…” Less fun. More serious. More like work. Bleaker. More hopeless. Awful. “We’ll be glad to have you back.”

 

"Be happier sounding." That's accompanied by a half-hearted smack to Sanada's chest, but mostly Yukimura concentrates on nuzzling at his neck. "You won. _We_ won. Nationals will be the same. Also, rude: you didn't even kiss me when we won. That's tradition ruined. You're a tradition-ruiner." He could have more morphine.

 

Sanada doesn’t bother making some very pointed excuses. Instead, he leans over and brushes a soft kiss to Yukimura’s lips, feeling that familiar prickling glee building in his body at the feeling. “We,” he says softly, brushing a hand through loose hairs around Yukimura’s face, “are having the after-match celebration in a few days. We all decided to wait for you.”

 

He might not need more morphine. Sanada is good. His mouth feels good, his hands feel good, and if not for the stabbing, throbbing pain in his back, Yukimura is pretty sure that he would be feeling _great_. Even with that pain, though, he kind of half-melts, flopping limply into Sanada's chest, squishing that medal between them and stealing another kiss in return, a smile on his own lips. "It can be at my house, like it was last year. Marui can use our kitchen. I just want to sit around with you guys all day."

 

“He’s been planning his menu ever since we found out about the surgery. I’m pretty sure everyone has some ideas about making you feel like...well. The kings we are.”

 

Is it arrogance if it’s true? Sanada has never thought so.

 

"I want to eat _everything_ ," Yukimura mutters, nuzzling his face into Sanada's shoulder. "And caffeine. I can drink caffeinated things again. I'm gonna."

 

“You’re going to drink things that will make you well,” Sanada says firmly. “Tea has caffeine, I think. That can be enough.” Mentally, he makes a note to hide every can of Red Bull Yukimura gets his hand on--and frisk Niou before he enters any room.

 

"Want _real_ caffeine," is the cross rebuttal. "And tea doesn't have protein. Pretty sure I remember Red Bull having protein. I need it if I'm going to recover really fast. I'm gonna play singles one in the finals, I've already decided." 

 

“I,” Sanada says seriously, “will cook you all of the protein you want. And no one would expect anyone else to play singles one. It would be absurd. You’re our number one, and always were.”

 

There's a short pause before Yukimura very seriously says: "If you are going to cook me things, I will sit and watch and only then will I not drink Red Bull." One hand smacks weakly against Sanada's chest. "You're very manly in the kitchen. I remember." 

 

Sanada turns red, and buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder. “I’ll cook you whatever you want,” he mutters. “I remember what you like. Marui is better at it, but when he isn’t around, I don’t mind.” Especially since Yukimura eats almost exclusively things that are easy to prepare.

 

"Between the two of you, I'll be spoiled. As I should be." His fingers knead a little into Sanada's chest. "I could have _more_ morphine. They took my button away again, didn't they. They're rude. I want to go home with you." 

 

“I’ll take you home soon. In the meantime…”

 

Sanada strokes gently through Yukimura’s hair, savoring the fact that he _can_. “Your homework is finished, and there’s no beeping. Weren’t you saying it stopped you from sleeping? They told me I can bring you home tomorrow, but I’ll see if I can persuade them for tonight. If you’re off the morphine, they must think you’re close to ready.”

 

"You have no idea how ready I am." Except Sanada _does_ , more than anyone, and having someone that actually _does_ know makes it not quite as awful, or as terrifying. _It's almost over, just another day at the most, that's it_ is what Yukimura keeps telling himself, but the allure of getting out of here _tonight_ … 

 

Yukimura exhales slowly, shutting his eyes and letting his head flop into Sanada's hand. "I won't even argue about anything if I can go home sooner, I promise. I just want to sleep in my own bed." _With you._

 

Sanada sighs, and pulls out his ID card. “If you promise to behave, I’ll talk to the Director. He knows my grandfather.”

 

As Yukimura well knows, though neither of them use this kind of thing often. It’s less than honorable, but Yukimura has been in here for _far_ too long.

 

Yukimura lifts his head and gives Sanada what he _hopes_ is among the most pathetic of stares ever. "I said I'd _promise_ to be good. I won't even whine about being in a wheelchair." _Unless they can't hear me._

 

Sanada favors him with a slow, penetrating look. “It isn’t the nurses you have to convince. It’s me. If I don’t think you’re taking care of yourself, I’m going to take you to somewhere there’s no tennis and no Red Bull.”

 

Yukimura's eyes narrow. "But I want to play tennis. If I agree to no Red Bull, there has to be tennis." He's been denied energy drinks for this long and can definitely endure _that_ a bit longer, but tennis isn't negotiable. 

 

“That’s only if you _don’t_ behave yourself. I told you, we’re going to a tennis game in the morning.” Babysitting Yukimura to make sure he doesn’t overexert himself isn’t going to be fun, but it is going to be rewarding….he hopes. Either way, it’s nothing he’d relinquish to anyone else in the world, and is only grateful that Yukimura still trusts him enough for this.

 

Yukimura flops his head back down with a huff of breath. Pouting at Sanada is, as usual, ineffective when it comes to his health. How annoying. "Don't talk to me like I'm a kid. I'm _going_ to behave. I'm not dumb, I just want to play again. I'll be able to play again faster if I get _home_ faster, too." 

 

“Don’t talk to me like you’ve never ignored your health for tennis before,” Sanada warns. “We want our Captain back, and I want you back _healthy_. Not just for Nationals, forever. None of us want to go through the last eight months again, least of all you.”

 

All Sanada gets in response at first is something close to a growling mumble. "If you get me out of here tonight," Yukimura eventually, huffily says, "I _promise_ I'll just go straight to bed. And I won't drink Red Bull _or_ ask Niou to get any for me later. See, I'm already being good." 

 

Sanada very carefully does not point out that Yukimura breaks his promises left and right without compunction. Instead, he gives a gentle kiss to Yukimura’s temple, then slips out of the bed. “I’ll be right back. I’ll see if they’ll release you into my care for the night, at least.”

 

At least there will be an attempt, and he can live with that. Yukimura carefully curls himself up around his medal, and scoots over a bit into the sheets warmed by Sanada's body just seconds ago. "Hey." He reaches out one hand, pawing lightly at Sanada's sleeve. "Even if they won't--thank you. I really, _really_ am grateful, Genichirou. For everything."

 

That makes everything worthwhile. It always does, and Sanada has to try not to simply sink down to the floor. There’s an amount of tension he hadn’t known he’d been building up, but this...Yukimura healthier than he’s been in a year, Yukimura soft-spoken and grateful instead of angry, Yukimura _healed_ —

 

It’s worth anything.

 

He swallows around the lump in his throat, and nods. “It is my honor.”

 

The Director is startled to see that the grandson of such a dear friend is in his office, and really, this is Japan. Nothing else is required. Twenty minutes later, Yukimura is in a wheelchair (“Hospital policy, got to do it to keep the lawyers away, of course, Sanada-san,”), and Sanada is carefully wheeling him to the train station. “Keep that jersey on tight,” he warns, glaring around them under the brim of his hat. “Unscrupulous people might try to hurt you if I leave you alone for a moment.”

 

"So don't leave me alone," Yukimura hums, tugging Sanada's jersey tighter around himself nonetheless. Air that smells like the _city_ , like food and people and things that aren't chemicals and gross, _gross_ medicine is enough to make him forget his promises already and leap out of his wheelchair at a run. Then again, if leaning back still hurts as much as it does, then getting up and _really_ moving doesn't sound terribly good right now, either. Even though Sanada thinks him completely reckless, he's not _entirely_ insane about being up and about. Usually. Well, maybe lately he has been, but...

 

Yukimura fights back a yawn instead, and tilts his head back to look up at Sanada. "What game are we going to go see tomorrow? Are the third place matches for the Kantou still going on?"

 

“That’s the one. Fudomine versus Rokkaku. You can see the man who made Akaya drop his first game play.” Sanada spares a brief, fond look down at Yukimura, then becomes hypervigilent again as soon as he wheels them into the train station. “I’m taking you to my house first. I didn’t think you’d want the team to see you like this, so we’ll get rid of the wheelchair there and take a taxi.”

 

Ahh, that's a weight off of his shoulders that he hadn't even really thought about until Sanada brought it up. Yukimura sags a little. "That's good. Thank you, Sanada. I'm sorry for all the trouble." 

 

“It’s no trouble.” The words are familiar after eight months, and maybe someday, Yukimura will believe him. To forestall any further communication about the perceived burden, he adds, “Then we can have practice the next day.”

 

"I'm being spoiled. Good, though, it's been way too long since I've been able to watch matches in person. Speaking of which, Akaya and Yanagi should start running laps now and continue until Nationals, and then maybe I won't be as annoyed with them." 

 

“They got distracted.” Sanada’s glare intensifies as he looks at nothing in particular, thinking about those awful matches. “Both of them were embarrassing. I don’t think either of them should be allowed to play singles if we face Seigaku again in Nationals.”

 

"I agree when it comes to Yanagi…Akaya, though, needs the experience. Otherwise, he won't be confident enough next year. Also," Yukimura dryly remarks, sparing a glance back to Sanada, "if he was trying to rush, then undoubtedly he got sloppy, and that _does_ remind me of someone else I know."

 

Sanada grimaces. “It was less the rush, more the...he was too overconfident. He beat Tachibana, and he thought he wouldn’t have trouble with Seigaku’s prodigy. He’s still not good at reading people, couldn’t tell he was being played with.”

 

"Mm. Fuji Shuusuke would be the worst kind of player for him to go up against…but he should know better by now, in theory. I'll have a talk with him later, I hope you haven't scolded him too much."

 

“I would have,” Sanada freely admits, “but I didn’t have time. I came right to the hospital after my match.” _And I would have stayed by your bedside for a year, if it meant you waking up to that medal in your hand._

 

"Ah, well, that's good. It just means I can scold him in my own way." Yukimura leans back carefully, casting a smile up to him. "Waking up to you was the best thing, anyway." 

 

Sanada almost misses his stop, lost in looking at Yukimura. “I had to make sure you would. Nothing...nothing else mattered.” They’re getting an odd look from an elderly woman sitting by the train window. Sanada ignores her.

 

"Nothing? Not even getting me that medal? You were pretty gung-ho about that, if I recall correctly," Yukimura lightly teases, his hands still holding tight to the medal in question. "If I had woken up to anyone else, though…mm, it wouldn't have been as good." He pauses, shrugging a little as he glances down into his lap. "You're the whole reason I could go through with the surgery in the first place, so if you hadn't been there…"

 

Sanada squeezes Yukimura’s shoulder, then drops his hand only to roll them out of the train. “I said I’d be there. I said I’d win. You can stop doubting me any time.”

 

"I'm not doubting you at all. I never did. Is it coming off like that?" Worriedly, Yukimura twists a little to look back at him, regrets it with a grimace, and sags back again with a light, frustrated sigh. "I'm just…hmm. Kind of amazed? I _knew_ you'd come through for me, and you did, but…I think I'm mostly wondering what I did to get so lucky. Having a surgery seems to pale in comparison. I don't think you're human, Genichirou."

 

“I’d be less tired if I weren’t human,” Sanada says frankly, but pats Yukimura’s shoulder gently. “You just talk a lot about what would have happened if I’d failed. I don’t like even thinking about failing. Especially not when I’d be letting you down.”

 

"I'll stop talking about it. It just doesn't all seem that real yet, you know?" What does seem real, however, is the fact that he knows where they are, recognizes the bits and pieces of the city that has changed over the months he's been in the hospital, and ah, that's weird. Really weird. "You're going to sleep in _my_ bed tonight," Yukimura insists again after a short pause. "A really long, good sleep. I have sleeping pills, you can even have one if you want, and then we'll both feel better and be ready to go tomorrow."

 

It isn’t far to Sanada’s house from the station, and before long, they’re rolling up the stone walkway. “You know I don’t like taking pills of any kind. You won’t need them, soon. The pain will be gone.” If he’s sure, and he’s careful, and he takes better care of Yukimura than anyone ever has, it might become true.

 

"I'll have you know I've developed quite a pain tolerance over the past few months," Yukimura sniffs, and unconsciously starts hugging his medal again while he says it. "The sleeping pills are more for the fact that _apparently_ I like to sleepwalk now. I hope that'll stop. Maybe I was unconsciously trying to escape from the hospital." He eyes Sanada's house a bit warily. "Is your mother home and going to try and baby me? That's always a little…"

 

“She’s at the summer home up in Hokkaido,” Sanada assures him, giving up on the wheelchair when the walkway gets too bumpy. Carefully, he eases Yukimura out of the wheelchair and into his arms, getting the door open with one hand. “It should be just us and my brother’s family, but they’re in the other wing.”

 

Yukimura doesn't like the way he basically dangles in Sanada's hold, because his legs feel _odd_ \--less like they don't want to listen to a thing he says, and more like they just aren't strong enough to hold up his weight. He growls underneath his breath, but it's an excuse to cling to Sanada's neck all the same. There are far worse fates, that's for sure. "I remember when you didn't realize he knocked up a fourteen year old." 

 

“It’s not like my parents _told_ me,” Sanada grumbles, peering around corners to make sure he doesn’t run into Sasuke--or worse, his brother. “You know how hushed-up they kept the whole thing. My _brother_ didn’t even know he was getting married until the day it happened.”

 

"I'm honored to be aware of the great Sanada family cover-ups. I remember when that finally came out--what was it that convinced him to go to the priest? 'Put on your suit, your grandmother's dying'?" Yukimura teases. "Don't worry, you'll never have to trick me like that. We've already had a child out of wedlock besides."

 

“I thought you’d have disowned him after he lost his match.” It’s been a while since Sanada has been fazed by Yukimura casually referring to Kirihara that way.

 

"Mmnn, no. Not yet. He's been acting out since I've been in the hospital, so he can have one more chance before I decide to stay back a year and captain the tennis team again." He's only half-joking.  

 

“I didn’t do most of your homework for a year so you could stay behind,” Sanada mutters, setting Yukimura in a chair as he calls for a cab. “We have another school to rule for three years.”

 

Yukimura beams up at him. "Or we could just rule the world. Isn't Tezuka trying to go pro soon? We could do it together and beat him in every tournament." The Tezuka lure _usually_ works pretty well. 

 

Sanada’s face falls, and he scowls, voice dropping to a growl. “Tezuka…”

 

"Ah. You're doing that thing again." Yukimura carefully stretches out one leg, and is pleased that he can at least poke Sanada with his toes accurately. "Don't worry, I'll make sure you get to play him in the Nationals."

 

Sanada blinks. “But…” He looks at Yukimura, trying not to think his reasons too loudly, and shakes his head. “He’s not a part of this any longer. He’s in Germany, remember? He left his team to govern themselves.”

 

Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "You seriously think he won't come back? The fact that Seigaku lost in the Kantou just means he'll want to come back even more so he can play and win--or, well, try to."

 

Sanada shrugs. “If I thought he had that kind of honor, maybe. Besides, if he did, someone else would be playing him. I’ve got to deal with that rookie.”

 

"After you dropped so many games to him? No way, he's mine," Yukimura sniffs, draping himself a bit sideways in the chair in an attempt to get comfortable. "Assuming we even _get_ to singles one, and assuming Tezuka lets him play again after losing to you. I'm already planning the Nationals out, we have a lineup that helps us breeze right through to the finals without any trouble."

 

Sanada tries not to have misgivings, and at least succeeds in not vocalizing them. “He’s a tough opponent,” he finally says. “You’ll want to be ready. I’m assuming you want the tapes.”

 

Yukimura glowers at him. "I'm going to be ready. I've got three weeks, I'll never be more ready. And of course I want the tapes, I'm going to pick everyone's matches apart and it's going to be the most fun I've had in months." 

 

Sanada’s hand hovers on the phone. “Now, or at the party? I can cancel the car.”

 

A dismissive wave of Yukimura's hand follows that. "Neither. It's time to celebrate right now, isn't it? I think it would be a bit much for everyone to have to suffer through that tonight." He hesitates, then asks with a sigh that's somewhat wry and put out with himself: "If it's not too much trouble, can I ask for one more favor?"

 

“Anything.” There isn’t a second of hesitation, and after a moment, Sanada starts moving to the hall closet. “Something else to wear?”'

 

Sanada can still read his mind, thank god. "One of your sweaters. You know, the ones that are so big on me that you can fit two of me in them? I just want to be _comfortable_ ," Yukimura sighs, huddling up into Sanada's jersey a bit more for emphasis. His mother can side-eye ugly knitting all she wants, but being draped in everything that's Sanada's sounds _really good_ tonight. 

 

Sanada’s hand is already on one of his sweaters, a heavy brown woolen garment with cables up and down the front and sleeves. “I don’t think my trousers will fit you, but we have yukata or...hmm, Sasuke had a growth spurt, you could wear his shorts.”

 

Yukimura shudders. "Pass. I amnot beyond wearing this sweater over a yukata, so gimme." He will be comfortable and slathered in Sanada's things, so help him.

 

Sanada is careful verging on doting as he wraps Yukimura snugly in one of his own yukata, then rolls the sweater down over his head. It drowns him, looking far larger than the last time Yukimura had done this. “I think I put on some width, sorry.”

 

"…Understatement," Yukimura murmurs, snuggling himself down into the sweater nonetheless as he peers up at Sanada. With all those drugs wearing off, it's a lot easier to look at Sanada and see that he really _has_ grown in eight months, and…well, it's not like he _hasn't_ grown, but getting taller and being thinner doesn't translate the same way. So much for being intimidating. "It's good, though. _You_ look good." He lifts one sleeved arm, amused at how a generous portion of the sweater just flops over his hand. "And your sweaters still do this, so I'm calling it all a success." 

 

A casual moment is enough to suppress the possibility of a bloody nose, and Sanada keeps his hand there for a long moment before carrying Yukimura out to the car. The ride is a quick one, made faster by the way Yukimura is actually _warm_ under his arm, not cool like his body always got in the hospital. Without being asked, he rolls the window down slightly, letting in all the air of the outside, letting it spill over them. “This is it. I...have an idea, if you don’t want to go in with me carrying you.” _Or fall._

 

If it were just his family he was coming home to, Yukimura wonders if he would even care--but it's his team, and they've seen enough of him collapsing, stumbling, of being entirely unable to walk. He carefully stretches out a leg, frowns as he wriggles his toes, and wishes that it didn't feel so disgusting to feel the _deterioration_ running up and down his legs. While it was never a logical train of thought, something about going through with that surgery made him think this would be much easier, much faster, a fix that would happen within just a few days… 

 

Eight months of being chained to a hospital aren't going to disappear that easily, apparently. Yukimura sighs and shrugs, his smile wry as he looks up at Sanada. "All right, tell me. I think I'm a little too tired not to make a fool of myself otherwise."

 

And that is how Yukimura enters his home perched magnificently on a high-backed chair, balanced on Sanada’s shoulder like a sedan chair (or a throne). It’s a lot of work, but Sanada welcomes the strain when he sees Yukimura’s face light up--and sees the faces of their team, all clustering around to raise him up higher together. It isn’t long before a chant of “Always Glorious, Always Victorious, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!” starts up. It never is.

 

That is also how Yukimura comes to regard Sanada as about twenty times more perfect than he already did. Well, that, and every hour prior to this one moment as well, but--

 

It's kind of hard not to want to cling to the man that is literally treating him like a god.

 

Akaya is the first to zoom up near him once he's set down. "Buchou!! You look like you're doing so much better, is that one of Fukubuchou's sweaters? It's really ugly--"

 

Jackal whacks him on the back of the head, and then it's _apparently_ Yagyuu's turn to greet him. Awkwardly. "Bonjour, Yukimura-kun!" Oh, god, apparently that's a thing he's going to say now. "I'm so glad to see you're doing well! We weren't sure if you'd be up to having the party tonight." 

 

"It would've been weird to have it later," Akaya complains, still rubbing at his head. "And Buchou's fine, just look at him." 

 

"I didn't want to make any of you wait for a chance to celebrate our victory," Yukimura agrees, though he looks pointedly at Akaya--and through him, to Yanagi lingering a few paces away. That only lasts a second, though--just long enough to make Akaya cringe, anticipating swift and immediate punishment--but Yukimura smiles instead, and it's worth it, because Akaya looks like he wants to cry. "I couldn't be more proud of all of you."

 

"Yukimura-buchou!!"

 

Sanada isn't the only one that grew, and that's readily apparent when Akaya grabs him up in a hug that's _far_ too tight for stitches and staples. "Ow ow ow ow--" When did Akaya get as tall as him, anyway?

 

Sanada’s hand doesn’t quite come down as hard as it could, but he does snatch Akaya up by the back of his collar, wrenching him away before he can do harm. “If you put him back in the hospital,” he growls, “you will have the bed next to his. Hug him _gently_ , he just got cut _open_.”

 

Niou tries to be cool, but it’s not easy when Yukimura is home again, so he just kind of awkwardly thunks his forehead against Yukimura’s hand the next time he reaches out. Yeah, that’ll do. “Welcome back, boss.”

 

“I told you to call him Captain!”

 

“Nah, he likes it.”

 

"I like it," Yukimura reassures Sanada in a conversation that's happened at least a hundred times by now. 

 

"That was gentle! I swear it was! I'm really sorry Yukimura-buchou, I wasn't trying to hurt you--"

 

In between giving a forcibly bowing Akaya's head a pat, Yukimura reaches out to grab Niou's rat tail--or attempt to, old time's sake and all that. "You and Mr. Bonjour dropped too many games. Never again, right?" 

 

"Mr. Bonjour? Ah, yes, that does have a good ring to it--if you ever need anyone to help you practice your French, Yukimura-kun, I'm always available--" 

 

"Do something," Yukimura deadpans to Niou, shoving him away. Dear god, this feels like home, he's not going to start crying over his teammates being stupid and weird and not walking on eggshells around him for the first time in months, that's _not_ going to happen.

 

“Yo, Yagyuu, Yukimura says he’s _really_ into Ancient Etruscan these days, I bet he’d be _thrilled_ if you’d learn to say stuff in that.”

 

“BUCHOU!” Marui skids out of the kitchen, leaping nimbly over Akaya's perpetually bowing form to present a plate of small samples. “Try the fish and the veggies before you taste the breads and cakes, or you won’t want to eat them. Jackal, go stir my pot before it boils over, please!”

 

"Ancient Etruscan, Ancient Etruscan, Yukimura-kun has such _interesting_ taste," Yagyuu mutters, wandering off to the side to contemplate this while Jackal offers Marui a salute and disappears off into the kitchen. 

 

"You have no idea how excited I am about _real_ food again, Marui," Yukimura breathes, lurching forward and immediately snatching up a piece of fish with the proffered chopsticks. His hand doesn't even _shake_ , and that's almost exciting as how the fish in question practically melts in his mouth. "You," he says after chewing and swallowing and reaching back to try the vegetables next, "are a genius. When I'm a famous pro tennis player, I'm taking you everywhere with me to cook for me." 

 

"Seiichi, you shouldn't eat too fast."

 

"Don't tell me how fast I should eat, Mr. I-Lost-To-My-Ex," Yukimura mumbles around his next mouthful. Yanagi looks artfully away. 

 

“Ex-doubles partner,” Sanada says quickly, forestalling Akaya’s obvious question. “Go get the Captain his favorite chair.”

 

“Okay, I know I’m a genius,” Marui says rationally, “but which ones do you like the most? I can make all of them, if you want, but I want you to eat everything and have room for dessert.”

 

"Missing out on your dessert would be the worst…ahh, this one for sure, I'm going to eat the remnants right now," Yukimura decisively says, snagging the last piece of the grilled fish. "You can surprise me with everything else, it's all really good." 

 

"I've got the comfy chair!" 

 

"Our offspring is a god, too," Yukimura sighs in relief, slumping to the side and making a grab for Sanada's hand. "Help me up, I'm drowning in sweater." And that's the excuse he's going to stick to.

 

Marui disappears quickly into the kitchen, leaving the plate behind in Jackal’s care. There are some things Jackal doesn’t mind having fobbed off on him, and eating Marui’s kitchen experiments is one of them.

 

“It’s an awful lot of sweater,” Sanada agrees, and pretends not to hear Akaya’s mutterings about the sweater’s lack of aesthetic appeal. It’s not like he wears it to _look_ good, it just happens to be warm...and it makes Yukimura look awfully sweet. He settles Yukimura into the chair, pulling one up next to him, on hand for whatever Yukimura might need.

 

“Yo, boss, I have a selection of movies and games we could watch, and games we can play. Trick is, you can’t see the titles before you choose, and you only get three questions.”

 

“Niou,” Sanada rumbles warningly.

 

Yukimura hopes his eyes don't roll into the back of his head _too_ obviously. Being home in this big, squishy chair and wrapped up in Sanada's clothes with his medal still around his neck underneath a huge sweater is about as perfect of a homecoming evening as he could have ever imagined. "I could play a fighting game where I crush all of you."

 

"Buchou, that's not fair! You always win--well, when Marui-senpai isn't playing--"

 

"Exactly," Yukimura smugly says. "He's busy cooking. My plan is perfect." 

 

Akaya looks pathetic enough that Yukimura reconsiders. He probably shouldn't, considering Akaya's loss, but... "Or just a movie is fine."

 

" _Yes!_ Niou-senpai, I _know_ you've got Spiderman in there--"

 

Yukimura lets his head loll to the side so he can better look at Sanada. "I'm a horrible mother," he wistfully says.

 

Niou looks down at the cases, all carefully blank and black, and shrugs. “I won’t say there _isn’t_ Spiderman,” he eventually allows. “But at least one of them might be a horror movie or game that’s guaranteed to cause death in the youngest person in any room that watches it. Oh, shit, that’s you, isn’t it, Kirihara?”

 

“Niou,” Sanada says again, more tired this time than anything. After all, Niou and Yagyuu had dropped games, too. 

 

“Five more minutes!” Marui calls from the kitchen. “Don’t start any fighting games without me! Or Spiderman, I know Niou brought Spiderman!”

 

Sanada mutters something under his breath that sounds an awful lot like _why would anyone want to watch a movie about a spider._

 

"I've always wondered about why Japanese teenagers prefer Spiderman to so many other American superheroes," Yagyuu muses aloud, pushing his glasses up. "I had a theory that it was color scheme based, but then there's Superman and--"

 

"If you can't say there isn't Spiderman, then there must be Spiderman!" Akaya insists, even though he scoots away from Niou's collection of cases, eyeing them warily. "Buchou, you're not gonna let him put on a horror movie that'll kill me, right?"

 

Yukimura shrugs a little. "I don't know. You _did_ lose your match."

 

"It was just that one time! It's _never_ going to happen again, I promise!" 

 

"Hmmm." 

 

"If you put on that horror movie, then I'll leave and it's Yukimura-buchou that's gonna die instead!" Akaya attempts with an accusing stare at Niou. "You _can't_ let that happen." 

 

“Yo, Sanada-fukubuchou,” Niou muses, “what’s the penalty for threatening Yukimura with death if he doesn’t get his way?”

 

Sanada stands.

 

Akaya turns as white as a sheet. "I--I wasn't threatening him! I was just saying--if I left, that's what would happen! I don't want Buchou to die, I'd never threaten him, please don't hit me, Sanada-fukubuchouuuu--"

 

Yukimura reaches out to lightly tap Jackal's arm. "Just put on Spiderman and put him out of his misery." 

 

Somehow, after a few false starts (what that second DVD was, Sanada never wants to find out), they manage to get Spiderman on the TV. According to the ones who keep up with this kind of thing and Akaya’s delighted face, this is the new Spiderman movie, which seems to intimate to Sanada that there is more than one movie about this boy that reminds him of Yagyuu with superpowers.

 

Weird superpowers.

 

“You started it without me!” Marui wails from the kitchen, trotting out a minute later with two plates of food. “One for Buchou, one for me, everyone else can go get one from the kitchen but _do not touch the dessert, Akaya!_ ”

 

"Pause it, pause it, I want Marui-senpai's food!" Akaya whines, bolting up from his spot on the floor to run to the kitchen. Jackal promptly steals a piece of meat off of Marui's plate before getting up to get his own.

 

"No pausing, consider it speed and accuracy training," Yukimura disinterestedly replies, taking his plate from Marui with a smile. "Thank you, Marui." 

 

Yagyuu hesitantly leans over to tap at Niou's shoulder. "Do you want to just eat off of my plate, or shall I get you your own?" 

 

As an answer, Niou butts his head against Yagyuu’s hand. Yagyuu is Good. Yagyuu understands the tendency towards piracy that come with his Islander ways.

 

Marui, for his part, steals a piece of meat back from Jackal’s plate as soon as he returns, and stares in some kind of awe at the way Sanada piles his plate. “Sanada-fukubuchou, I—”

 

“Thank you for cooking, Marui,” Sanada says firmly, and stuffs about three servings worth of meat into his mouth, suddenly extremely conscious of the fact that he hasn’t eaten for a long time. Even _his_ endurance has limits.

 

Jackal pokes Marui with the end of his chopsticks. "Oi, Bunta. Staring's rude." 

 

"Yanagi-senpai, I just want _one_ piece of cake--"

 

Akaya is evicted from the kitchen shortly after, shuffling back in with a scowl on his face as he flops down with his food. Yanagi follows moments later, serenely folding himself up next to Akaya and slapping his hand when he immediately tries to snitch a bit more food from his plate. 

 

"Your desserts have remained untouched, Marui-kun," Yagyuu informs him upon returning to Niou's side a moment later, setting a plate between them…and promptly making a liar of himself by deftly passing a cupcake into Niou's clutches when Marui's attention is turned to the screen. 

 

Niou, fortunately, is a magician, and quite skilled in the act of making cupcakes disappear. Yagyuu is Good, so it’s only about half an hour into Awkward Teenager With Wet Dream Powers that Niou winds up halfway, uncomfortably, in Yagyuu’s lap. It’s bony and he’s heavy, and he’s sort of daring Yagyuu to try and evict him when one of his hands is tracing little patterns on the back of Yagyuu’s neck.

 

Sanada stares at the screen, frowning. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters, setting aside his hat for the time being, swallowing a large chunk of meat in between bites of vegetables. “Those are _martial arts_ moves, it isn’t like he took the time to study the katas. You don’t just get that kind of knowledge from being bitten by a spider!”

 

“Buchou, make him stop, he’s making it weird and Spiderman is _awesome_.”

 

"It's called suspension of disbelief, Sanada," Yukimura patiently says, reaching over to give Sanada's arm a light pat that sort of lingers and ends up being a slow stroking motion instead. "Just go with it. American superheroes are always like this." 

 

"Niou-kun," is Yagyuu's low little hiss as he attempts to adjust Niou into a better position in his lap, at the very least, but oh, this is so _awkward_ \--

 

"I would get those kinds of powers from being bitten by a spider," Akaya mutters, staring intently at the screen in-between stuffing his face. "But I would use them for _tennis_." 

 

Marui pokes Jackal’s arm. “I would totally watch a movie about Akaya the tennis superhero. We should make it happen.”

 

“Knock it off,” Niou mutters, squashing Yagyuu a little more firmly. What an asshole, he can at least accept a compliment when it sits in his lap. 

 

Sanada, personally, starts to say more about Peter Parker and physics, but is emphatically distracted by Yukimura’s hand. He swallows hard, turning to the side and giving Yukimura a look that he’s tried _very_ hard not to favor him with often, while he was in the hospital.

 

(Then again, he’s actually free of that pesky heart monitor now…)

 

Akaya swallows so hard around a piece of meat that he nearly chokes. " _Seriously?_ Buchou, can we make the next play we put on about me as a tennis superhero? That'd be _awesome!_ "

 

"Uh huh," Yukimura says distractedly, slowly kneading his fingers into Sanada's bicep. It isn't like he hasn't touched Sanada in eight months, but only now is it exceedingly obvious exactly how much training Sanada's _obviously_ been doing… 

 

"Really?! Sweet!"

 

Yagyuu makes a sort of weak, half-mumbled protest before resigning himself to having a lap full of Niou. At least no one else seems to _notice_ , and he could be _more_ unhappy about it.

 

Marui shifts closer to the screen, focusing more on the action than on what’s going on around him--a sense that has managed to preserve his deliberate ignorance about a lot of things over the years. Niou appears to be in Yagyuu’s lap and feeding him food with his fingers for some reason (he’s going to assume there’s a reason), and Yukimura is sort of petting Sanada (there’s probably a reason), but Gwen Stacey is in _danger_. “Oi, Akaya, maybe you should be Gwen Stacey in the musical. I’d be a way better Spiderman, I’m more acrobatic.”

 

Sanada leans over to Yukimura’s ear, murmuring, “Let me know when you’re tired, and I’ll send them away. For whatever reason.”

 

If it were a matter of being _tired_ , they would have all been gone a long time ago. As it is, Yukimura just smiles, tipping his head over to gently knock it against Sanada's. "For right now, I'm fine. Besides," he adds lowly, "you're staying the night, remember?" 

 

Akaya's mouth drops open. "No way! I'm not gonna be a girl, I'm gonna be Spiderman. I can be just as acrobatic as you, Marui-senpai!"

 

"Dunno about that one," Jackal dryly mutters around another mouthful of vegetables. 

 

Yagyuu is still periodically, frantically hissing. "Niou-kun-- _Niou-kun_ , you don't need to feed me like that--"

 

“I know I don’t _have_ to,” Niou grumbles, and abandons his attempts to be cute by starting to toss green peas down Yagyuu’s shirt instead. If he doesn’t want to be _that_ couple, they’ll be _this_ couple.

 

“Go on, Akaya,” Marui challenges, leaning back on his elbows and pretending he doesn’t see Sanada going bright red as Yukimura whispers in his ear, “let’s see your web-slinging moves.”

 

“Outside!” Sanada breaks from his reverie to thunder that one word, looking around at the family photos, the expensive furniture, and imagining Akaya trying to be _acrobatic_ in here.

 

"Sit down, Akaya," Yanagi firmly says the moment Akaya starts to climb to his feet, and Akaya flops back down with a huff.

 

"I want dessert. And seconds. Both," he mutters grumpily, and turns briefly back to Sanada and Yukimura. "Hey, Buchou, if you're not gonna finish that, I'll take it. Fukubuchou, why's your face so red--"

 

"Here, Akaya," Yukimura interrupts, leaning up a bit to shove his half-finished plate in Akaya's direction to make him stop pestering. 

 

"Niou-kun! _Niou-kun_ , why does it have to be down my shirt, _this is designer_ \--" 

 

"Wow," Jackal somehow manages underneath his breath without choking.

 

“Buchou,” Marui complains, “I made _plenty_ , you don’t have to give him yours, I _know_ how to cook for a party that includes Niou!”

 

“Puri.”

 

“Everyone be quiet and watch the movie!” Sanada snarls. “This is supposed to be welcoming Yukimura back to the team, not pestering him about irrelevant things!”

 

"It's fine, Sanada--I'm just saving room for dessert, anyway," Yukimura quickly reassures him, reaching back over to start petting his arm again. 

 

Yagyuu makes a valiant attempt not to whimper about his shirt again. 

 

Niou leans over, and whispers, “Don’t worry, you’re not going to walk out of here wearing that shirt,” and leans back to watch Yagyuu’s face change.

 

Sanada, on the verge of getting up to refill Yukimura’s plate, actually stops, gentled at the touch. He settles back into his chair, glowering at improbable physics and comebacks that probably make more sense in English. “As long as you aren’t feeling sick.”

 

"I'm really fine," Yukimura quietly reassures him, curling his fingers around Sanada's arm and leaving them to linger there. Okay, well, eating _real_ food after months and months isn't the easiest thing in the world, but he's stopping before he _does_ start to feel _too_ sick. The last thing he wants to do is throw up Marui's cooking and ruin what is a very, very good day.

 

Yagyuu manages another, unintelligible squawk, and then growls, shoving his glasses up and half-hiding his reddening face behind one hand. "You aren't going to take it off _here_ ," he hisses underneath his breath.

 

Niou leans in closer, ignoring the artificial barrier, and mutters, “Come to the bathroom with me. _My_ shirt doesn’t have peas in it.” His logic is fucking flawless.

 

“Guys, shhh, this is the best part!” Marui insists, watching Peter Parker save a train. “Wow, New York has _bad_ trains, I bet in Tokyo it wouldn’t even fall off the tracks!”

 

Yagyuu is too busy staring at Niou in order to debate about trains. "But then _you're_ not going to have a shirt, and everyone will _know_." 

 

Niou rolls his eyes. “ _I’m_ going to be wearing _your_ shirt, dumbass. I’ve got wigs.” Duh.

 

"Oh." Yagyuu hesitates, thinking, wondering if that's really something they should be doing at Yukimura's house. "But they'll still _know_ \--"

 

"See, that! That right there! I could do that on stage, that's why I need to be Spiderman!" Akaya crows, biting his last piece of fish in half with gusto. "Marui-senpai, you can't jump like that, that's my job!"

 

“Who says I can’t jump like that?” Marui asks, affronted. “Jackal, Buchou, tell him I can jump like that! I can so jump like that!”

 

Niou just winks at Yagyuu, and stands up, stretching, before sauntering towards the bathroom. Yagyuu will follow. He’s addicted to it, the sad bastard.

 

Sanada frowns at the screen. No one is watching, which he finds kind of sad.

 

Yagyuu looks around nervously, as if expecting someone to try and stop him. It doesn't happen, and that's when he makes his daring escape. 

 

"You can so jump like that," Jackal automatically says, though there isn't exactly a lot of passion there. 

 

"Uh huh," Yukimura agrees, his head flopping to the side to rest on Sanada's shoulder. 

 

"I've got this," Akaya breathes. "Buchou, when are you going to start writing the screenplay? I'm going to be a _star_."

 

"Akaya, if you don't drop it, I'm going to make you my footrest." 

 

Sanada tries, as he has in the past, to wrap his mind around wanting to watch a movie and then _talking all the way through_. It’s a skill that his teammates seem to have, and it baffles him at every turn.

 

Instead of running out for a jumping competition, Marui disappears to the kitchen for a minute, shoving a few cupcakes at Yukimura before taking a whole mount for himself. “Don’t look at me like that,” he mutters to no one in particular. “I made lots.”

 

Jackal promptly steals one from Marui's collection. "You made them, eat as many as you want." 

 

Yukimura nudges the most chocolate slathered of the bunch in Sanada's direction before unwrapping one for himself. "It's not like watching historical movies, Sanada," he lowly teases. "You don't need complete silence." This is, however, why the team never goes to a movie theatre together _ever_.

 

Akaya is gone one moment, back the next, and surrounded by enough cupcakes to look like a sea monster that hit a dessert buffet. He seems proud of this.

 

Sanada wonders briefly if the team has forgotten the “five laps for every cupcake for anyone who isn’t Marui” rule, and decides they probably have. Then again, Yukimura looks rather pleased, and Sanada can’t help but like that. For once, he lets it go, arm moving to rest against Yukimura’s after the chocolate cupcake finds its way into his mouth. It _is_ a celebration, after all. “Just don’t see how anyone can understand what’s going on,” he mutters. “I don’t even know who all these foreigners are supposed to be, they all look the same.”

 

Niou--or Yagyuu--or Niou?--staggers out of the bathroom, followed by, uh, the other. Both of them look oddly pleased with themselves. Sanada doesn’t like that.

 

Yanagi also seems somewhat irritated by their return, though it seems to be more related to the fact he can't immediately tell who is who, and thus yanks out a notebook to start scribbling notes. Unconcerned, Niou--or Yagyuu--flops down again bonelessly, and doesn't seem inclined to get up any time soon. 

 

"The only ones that really matter are Spiderman and his useless girlfriend," Yukimura dismisses, picking at another cupcake's wrapper. "And, you know, Akaya looks happy even though he's eating forty cupcakes." He _is_ somewhat concerned about the impending sugar rush. Damn, maybe this was a mistake. 

 

“We could always have an impromptu practice match after this,” Sanada suggests. “You could supervise. Akaya and Renji could play until someone starts bleeding.” That could sound like a worse idea. The memory of losing those two sets-- _slowly_ \--is enough to make the chocolate turn in his stomach. 

 

Someone in Niou’s uniform--though they can’t be _sure_ that they’ve switched, sometimes they pull a double-bluff just to fuck with everyone--starts edging towards the blankly labeled DVDs. “Yo, after Spiderman, I still have that horror movie—”

 

“Pass!” Marui says firmly, and starts stealing Akaya’s cupcakes after demolishing his own. After all, he _made_ them, and Jackal said it was fine.

 

"Marui-senpai!! Those are mine, don't steal them!" Akaya turns frantically towards maybe-Niou afterwards. "You can't put on a horror movie, Niou-senpai! You said it would kill me!"

 

"Tomorrow," Yukimura says, stretching out one leg to poke at the side of Akaya's head, which doesn't seem to faze him in the least. "While I appreciate your desire for punishment, Sanada, I think it will be much more potent tomorrow when they all least expect it." He offers the other man a sweet smile. "That applies to you as well, of course."

 

“Of course.” Sanada had never thought that he would be allowed to get by without punishment, not after dropping five games. He wouldn’t have _wanted_ to. 

 

Marui turns bright eyes on Akaya. “If you give me your cupcakes,” he says seriously, “I’ll make sure you don’t get killed by a horror movie. I have my ways.” He’s drooling a _little_. Damn, he’s good at baking.

 

Akaya hesitates, obviously weighing the pros and cons between death and cupcakes. Dying sucks and all that, but he has _cupcakes_ , and they're _really_ good--"Buchou, he's trying to…uh…exploit me. Yeah, that's the word. Marui-senpai's exploiting me!"

 

"Good." 

 

"Buchouuuu!" 

 

Maybe-Yagyuu reaches over and politely snags a cupcake off of Akaya's plate. "For science, Kirihara-kun."

 

"Same here," Jackal agrees, stealing two and handing one to Marui.

 

"Exploitation, exploitation!"

 

"It's never good when Akaya learns a new word, is it?" Yukimura sighs.

 

“Sasuke was the same when he was four or five,” Sanada mutters under his breath. “That’s not even what that word means, Akaya!”

 

“Puri.” Five more cupcakes disappear, somehow, in the flick of a rattail. 

 

With no more cupcakes left to steal, Marui sighs heavily, then retreats quickly to the kitchen to pull the second batch onto a platter. It won’t do to have Kirihara crying the whole rest of the movie, even if he _does_ deserve it for losing on Yukimura’s surgery day.

 

"Marui-senpai, you're the best!" 

 

"I would've gotten out of the hospital faster if I had Marui's cooking the whole time," Yukimura grumbles underneath his breath, stealing another cupcake from the platter when Marui walks past. Maybe that isn't true, but it certainly feels like it is right now. 

 

It's near the tail-end of the movie that the front door swings open, and Yukimura jolts awake from being half-asleep on Sanada's shoulder. "Hello, everyone!" Yukimura Seiki greets, dropping her bags at the door in order to dart over to her son. "Sanada-kun, you're a _lifesaver_ \--there were so many things I had to do to get ready for Seiichi coming home, and I had to drop Kaede off at her friend's house and go to the pharmacists', if it weren't for you--"

 

"Mom, stop petting my hair in front of everyone," Yukimura mutters, twisting partially to the side in his chair. 

 

"Sorry, sorry, I'm just so _proud_ of you--you already have more color in your face, are you feeling okay? I have your pain medication and everything else--"

 

" _Mom_ \--" 

 

"Right, right, sorry! If you boys need anything, just let me know! Sanada-kun, when you have a moment, I'm going to show you his medication schedule, all right?"

 

Immediately, Akaya opens his mouth to say something, and Yukimura's foot grinds into the side of his head a bit more. "If anyone comments, the answer is laps." Jackal shuts his mouth in turn.

 

Akaya edges away. "I was just going to say your mom is always really pretty--"

 

"That's 100 laps."

 

"Buchou!!"

 

"We can make this into a game of learning exponents if you keep going."

 

Sanada stands. He’s usually _very_ good at distracting Yukimura’s mother’s attention, an ability he’s usually careful not to overuse. He gives her the kind of bow that always makes her clasp her hands, and says seriously, “Please give me his charts and his pills, Yukimura-san. No harm will come to him while he is with me.”

 

From behind him, he can hear Niou fake-swoon. “So _manly_.”

 

"Niou," Yukimura lowly warns.

 

Seiki exhales a sigh that is rather tremulous. "I can always count on you, Sanada-kun. My son is so lucky to have you--"

 

Yukimura wonders if he can bury himself in Sanada's sweater. It's one thing to know it, it's something else to hear his mother go on about it. 

 

"Come with me, I'll show you everything; you're the only one he listens to with this kind of thing, anyway." 

 

At least they’re _all_ embarrassed. Well, except for Niou. He’s never embarrassed. Red-faced, Sanada follows Yukimura’s mother out of the room.

 

As soon as they’re gone, Niou swoons across Yagyuu’s lap--at least, someone in Niou’s clothes swoons across the lap of someone in Yagyuu’s clothes. “Sanada-san,” he breathes, batting long lashes, “you’re so _manly_. Such big sweaters! Ah, let me touch your muscles!”

 

"I'm getting out of this chair to kill you," Yukimura flatly threatens, starting to claw his way upright.

 

"Buchou, let me hit him for you," Jackal hastily intervenes, knowing Sanada will kill them all if they let Yukimura up and about. 

 

"Because laps! The answer is laps! Niou, choose how many, and if it's too low, Sanada will remedy that. Yagyuu, you, too, you're a _unit_." 

 

"…The sweaters _are_ a little bit much, Yukimura-kun--"

 

"I don't want to hear your opinions on Sanada's sweaters when I know they're perfect!"

 

Niou dodges Jackal’s fist swiftly, mostly by climbing up and around Yagyuu’s beanpole form. “At least you don’t have to worry about his family not approving,” he says with a grin, bobbing and weaving. “Your mother knows he’ll be a _great_ housewife. How many itty bitty Kiriharas are you going to put in him?”

 

Marui clamps his hands firmly over Akaya’s ears. “Children don’t need to hear that kind of gross thing, Niou!”

 

Yukimura fumes, grabbing a cupcake wrapper and throwing it at Niou's head. It misses, sadly, but there are still more wrappers. "If there's a chance that our children will turn out like you, then there won't be any more of them at all!" 

 

"Yukimura-kun, that's a bit harsh--" Yagyuu desperately attempts, straightening his glasses after Niou's brief attempts to cling to his head. 

 

"It isn't harsh! Pick your lap numbers immediately or I'll do it for you _and you won't like it_." 

 

"What's gross? What is Niou-senpai even talking about?" Akaya complains, attempting to wriggle away from Marui's clutches. 

 

“Fifty laps around Sanada’s _broad shoulders_ ,” Niou suggests, scrambling up Yagyuu’s back in some kind of absurd game of chicken. “I’m thinking I kept bringing you the wrong care package when you were in the hospital, huh?”

 

“He’s being stupid,” Marui informs Akaya. “It’s about math.” That usually works for a little while.

 

"Oooh. I hate math. Gross."

 

"50 isn't enough! 200. 200 is the number! Both you and Yagyuu can go run 200 laps, right now, _around Kanagawa!_ "

 

"Seiichi, use your indoor voice or you're going to get shrill," his mother calls from the kitchen.

 

"Don't undermine my authority, _Mom!_ Both of you, go, run!"

 

"Niou-kun, this is your fault," Yagyuu grunts as he sways backwards underneath Niou's weight. 

 

“Yeah, definitely, around Kanagawa,” Niou agrees, leaping off of Yagyuu’s back and draping an arm around him instead. “We’re gonna go do them at the arcade. Akaya, wanna come?”

 

Marui perks up. “Arcade?” Spiderman is over, and no one is giving him more cupcakes, and Yukimura’s house has got _parents_ in it now.

 

"Heck yeah I wanna come! I'll beat you both at Street Fighter!" Akaya declares, clawing his way over to both of them in an instant. "And Marui-senpai, too, if he's coming!"

 

"If you two don't do your laps, I'll know about it," Yukimura grumpily warns, slumping back into his chair once more. "I'll definitely know." 

 

"I'll monitor them, Seiichi, if you'd like me to," Yanagi says as he climbs to his feet. 

 

"It's almost better if Sanada just slaps them tomorrow," Yukimura complains, sighing. "Go on, all of you, I know you want out." If Niou makes a comment about leaving him alone with his sweaters and manly boyfriend…

 

Niou hangs back for just a moment, letting Yagyuu shepherd out the others. He twitches his hand, and a little wrapped box appears in Yukimura’s lap. “Welcome back, boss,” he says, a little grin on his face. “Relax, we’ve got Nationals in the bag.”

 

Then he’s gone, somehow without the door quite opening.

 

While most people wouldn't find Niou reassuring in the least, Yukimura supposes he's just weird enough to be not-most-people. He flops back, picking at the wrapping on the box and opening it. 

 

A small stack of photos mostly consisting of Seigaku's team members looking forlorn about their losses falls out into his hand, and then there's one of Sanada (hurriedly, Yukimura can tell from that unusually sloppy bow) accepting the first place trophy. His lips twitch into a smile, and he sets the photographs back into the box, making a mental note to have them framed later. 

 

Maybe just 50 laps is okay…and they can wait until tomorrow. 

 

"Genichirou, you don't have to listen to my mother ramble on all night," Yukimura calls towards the kitchen, heaving himself up into a proper sitting position and wondering about the possibility of walking. Maybe not tonight, what with the way he _hurts_. First thing in the morning, though, that's going to happen. For every day of being sedentary, it takes two days to recover that strength--he's heard it a dozen times from every nurse and doctor in the hospital, and he doesn't have any time to waste. 

 

Something about the tone of Yukimura’s voice connotes _I’m about to get up and I should not_ , and Sanada hurries back into the room, equipped with boxes and papers and bottles. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to leave you alone for that long,” he says, and extends his arm. “If you want to lean on me, I bet you could walk to your room, now that everyone else is gone.” _He_ doesn’t care if Yukimura is a little wobbly, but knows he wouldn’t want to be seen that way by the rest of the team.

 

Yukimura nods, reaching out to grab hold of Sanada's arm. "Tomorrow morning, we're going to go running," he firmly declares, even when he has to grit his teeth to haul himself up onto his feet. It's less the fact that he can't stand, more the fact that moving makes the incision in his back hurt that much more, even when he was _sure_ that he was used to it. He sways, but just once, stopping himself from wobbling out of sheer will. "Then we can watch the matches. I have three weeks, I can't waste a single day." 

 

“Time spent recovering isn’t wasted,” Sanada reminds him firmly, quelling the urge to simply pick Yukimura up. He has to remember that not just Yukimura’s body has suffered injuries, but his pride as well. “That’s how you’ll be at the top of your game, not by pushing yourself too hard and hurting yourself. Start by training your arms tomorrow,” he suggests. “Ride on my back while I run. That’ll be good strength training for me, too.”

 

"As the entire team felt the need to remind me," Yukimura mutters, " _you_ are already at the top of your game when it comes to _strength._ " He's pretty into that, though, and could spend _more_ time with his hands on Sanada's muscles…which is pretty easy when he's clinging to Sanada's arm on the way to his bedroom. At least he's not on the floor (yet) and there are few things he can think of as being more satisfying. "The more I do on my own and with you, the less annoying my rehab at the hospital is going to be. They already told me I'll probably have to go three times a week over the next few months depending on my progress, isn't that _great_." 

 

“The fact that there are so many people who care about you and want you to get well _is_ great,” Sanada says, and takes the stairs slowly, letting Yukimura set the pace, making himself available in every way. “But you’re never going to be going that long. You’ll surprise them all again. You always do.” The strength of the conviction in that statement is almost palpable. There are no doubts. There never have been.

 

"If I never have to see the inside of a hospital again, it'll be too soon." Half-way up the stairs, and this is starting to be the opposite of fun. Maybe running in the morning _is_ a bad idea. Yukimura exhales a slow breath through his nose, digs his nails into Sanada's arm, and sets himself to the task of those last few steps. "I just don't want to be sidelined for Nationals. Even if I'm in singles one and we never get to my match…I want to know that I will be just as ready as all of you." 

 

Sanada weighs the possibility of making Yukimura mad against the possibility of letting Yukimura open those stitches up, and decides to let him do the last few steps. At the top, though, his patience runs out, and he simply scoops Yukimura up, sweater and all, in the crook of one arm. The journey to the bedroom is much shorter after that, and he gently sets him down on the bed, explaining in a way that he hopes doesn’t sound condescending, “I just couldn’t wait to see you relax in here.” _And if I’d have asked, you’d have refused._

 

That's almost certainly a cover-up, but Yukimura lets it slide because it's his bedroom, his _bed_ for the first time in months, and it's just _Sanada_ , anyway. If it were anyone else, he'd want to kick out their teeth, but… 

 

"…I need to get fatter so you can't pick me up that easily," he murmurs all the same, sighing as he slowly worms his way up into the center of the bed. "Now give me my drug cocktail so I can forget about it and just curl up with you for the rest of the night." 

 

Sanada pulls out a small bottle of water, loosens the cap with the ease of long practice (Yukimura isn’t the only one who’s gotten used to the hospital), and passes it over along with five pills shaken out of little boxes and bottles. “None of these should mess with your mind too badly, but I’m still supposed to keep an eye on you,” he warns. “It’s mostly just for the infection and the pain. Turn over, I have to clean it up and replace the bandage. I have pain cream if you want that instead of the yellow pill.”

 

Yukimura makes a face at him, and promptly tosses back the pills with a single swig of water. It's annoying how good he's gotten at that. "I could have both," he grumbles, slowly rolling over and flopping onto his stomach. "Please don't poke at it too much, I've _just_ gotten used to the way it feels when it throbs a lot." 

 

“Seiichi. Please trust me not to poke at your stitches.”

 

Sanada’s fingers are gentle and precise when he pulls back the bandage, and he’s rather proud of how well and how accurately he manages to softly swab on the painkilling cream and the anti-inflammatory cream before the anti-bacterial. If Yukimura is getting good at swallowing pills, Sanada’s getting plenty good at this. It doesn’t take long to put on a new bandage, and he tapes it gently into place. “There. Feel better?”

 

"A little." Sanada would probably like hearing that he should pursue a career in the medical profession, but Yukimura doesn't want to encourage him to do anything but tennis. Yukimura exhales a long breath, shifts and rolls and slowly wriggles onto his side again. "Please get into bed with me now and cuddle me." 

 

That’s an order Sanada can follow, but he pauses first to open his bag, pulling out his yukata and toothbrush. “Give me two minutes,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom.

 

"You're so lame," Yukimura complains in a whine after him, huffing as he flops his head down onto a pillow. "I smell like hospital and maybe cupcakes, but mostly hospital--ugh, you are helping me take the longest bath _ever_ tomorrow." 

 

As Yukimura probably has guessed already, two minutes turns into a bit more, and when Sanada emerges from the bathroom, he’s clean from head to toe, the bathroom fogged up after his shower. He’s dressed simply in a yukata, his hair still damp, but thoroughly toweled, and he climbs carefully into bed behind Yukimura. “Sorry to make you wait.” He contemplates saying the next thing aloud, and for once, decides to do it. “I’ve just been thinking about this for a long time, and I didn’t want to be gross for it.”

 

"…You're forgiven," Yukimura mumbles, slowly wriggling his way back to lean into Sanada's chest. To be fair, though…Sanada smells just as good after a long tennis match to him as he does now when he's clean and soapy. After tennis, he still smells clean, but then there's sweat and tennis courts and he'd be a liar if he said that wasn't a turn-on. Whoops. "It's a good thing you're perfect." 

 

Sanada hooks his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder. “Not perfect. That brat took more games off of me than anyone but Tezuka.” He sighs, replaying the match in his head--not that he’s stopped doing that since it had ended. “He’s going to be magnificent someday.”

 

"I wasn't talking about tennis. _I'm_ the one that's perfect in tennis." He's allowed his egomania for at least five seconds, god damn it all. "But in everything else, it's you." Yukimura tips his head back, his cheek rubbing against Sanada's with the motion. "For what it's worth, though…I don't think it's a big deal that you dropped games. Not this time. Nothing was normal about the Kantou this year."

 

“At least I won.” Sanada allows himself a brief smile. “And beat Tezuka’s little protege. That’ll teach him to skip off to Germany in the middle of the school year. What could he have been _thinking_?”

 

"Okay, you know what?" Yukimura rolls, twisting himself around with some _considerable_ effort in order to face Sanada. "No more tennis tonight. You're doing that thing you do, so it's for the best."

 

Sanada’s face falls, and he nods, a little sheepishly. “Sorry. We should be celebrating your triumphant return. I just…” He doesn’t need to finish that. Yukimura knows what he ‘just.’ 

 

But more important than that is the way Yukimura is in his arms, warm and _home_ for the first time in months. Sanada leans down, resting his forehead against Yukimura’s. “I’m glad you’re home.”

 

Yukimura lurches up, stealing a kiss without a single semblance of warning. It's usually better to do it that way, because if he _acts_ like he's going to kiss Sanada, then Sanada ends up nervous, and that's just no good. "I'm _really_ glad to be home," he murmurs, kissing Sanada again while he's at it. "Thank you for getting me home early. And for dealing with my mother. And everything else."

 

Something about being blindsided makes it a lot easier for Sanada to accept the switch from “talking” to “kissing,” which he’s decided is a very good thing. Once they’re doing it, he doesn’t mind; it’s just the lead-up that always makes him anxious. Since that’s gone, he bends now, brushing another soft kiss to Yukimura’s lips. “I told you. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my honor to do whatever I can for you.” He might have slipped into somewhat more formal language there.

 

Okay, so maybe Niou's teasing was spot on. It's a _problem_ when Sanada gets all formal like that, especially when he's curled up around him in bed and Yukimura is very aware of all of those warm, _solid_ muscles he's cuddled up against. Damn it. "…I think," he slowly murmurs, nuzzling his face into Sanada's neck, "that I have missed when you talk to me like you're a samurai more than anything."

 

Sanada flushes slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. “I just…” He shrugs, a little helplessly. “You’re someone I respect more than anyone. After what you’ve defeated, it would be wrong not to show you that respect.” God, he probably sounds like a worse nerd than Yagyuu.

 

"Considering there isn't a more honorable man than Sanada Genichirou… _I'm_ the one honored by that respect," Yukimura says with a soft laugh, and he leans up to press another kiss to the corner of Sanada's mouth. "I asked a lot of you. Plus, I'm an awful patient, and I'm just going to keep being awful. You've done everything I asked and more, and you led our team to victory." Yukimura curls his fingers into Sanada's yukata, gently tugging on the fabric. "There isn't anyone else I would ever trust with that responsibility…so you have _my_ respect just as much as you have my gratitude." If he wants to play at speaking formally tonight, then they might as well both do it.

 

Something about their method of speech tonight feels like a contract being sealed, and Sanada wants that more than anything. It’s not easy to keep himself from adding an honorific that most people would consider highly unnecessary, but he manages...barely. He reaches out, gripping Yukimura’s hand. “One more. Then our rule will be complete. Your respect honors me, and I want only to be worthy of it, my lord.” 

 

Whoops, he didn’t manage to squash that honorific after all. Hopefully, Yukimura won’t make too much fun of him.

 

Sanada's hand tight around his makes him melt. Ah, maybe he's just too easy, but then again, being easy for someone like Sanada isn't bad at all. "Between the two of us," Yukimura quietly agrees, curling his fingers around Sanada's, "it will happen. I have nothing but faith in you, Genichirou, and you are already more than worthy." 

 

 


	2. Atobe & Ryouma

“Good evening, Ku~ni~mi~tsuu,” Atobe half-drawls, one eyebrow raised as his leg twitches slowly back and forth. The phone is pressed gently against his ear, but his eyes are all on the large-screen TV, watching the last few moments of the last game over and over again in real time, then in slow motion. 

 

The arc of the ball, too fast to see on regular play. The lunge, faster than anyone could have imagined, but not quite fast enough. The slow exhale that he can almost _feel_ from both of the players when they hear the score called. The way they both straighten up slowly, both of them trembling and shaken.

 

“I didn’t think anyone would have been able to call you yet,” he says, amused. “I know you have your phone off during nighttime there, and...well, it isn’t as if your old teammates have this number, is it?”

 

They don’t. He knows they don’t.

 

The problem with Atobe is that he has the tendency to reveal all with just his tone of voice, no matter how _subtle_ he thinks he's being. 

 

That's the case here, and it certainly isn't the phone call that Tezuka Kunimitsu wants right now. 

 

"It's barely three in the morning." Not that it matters. He's up, has been up, has been thinking about the Kantou and the fact that _he isn't there_ , and hearing his phone ring (his _other_ phone, the one Atobe shoved into his hand and sweetly insisted he take) made him more awake than anything else combined. "Which," Tezuka adds moodily, making a valiant effort not to pace, "you never seem to care about. Tell me what you want or I'm hanging up."

 

Except that it's less about what Atobe wants, and more about what he knows, or he wouldn't have called right _now_.

 

“What I want? Ah, you wound me. I was just calling with news. I doubt that staunchly masculine vice-captain of yours will have the guts to call you yet...if he ever works it up. Maybe he’ll just hope you’ve forgotten about Seigaku.”

 

Atobe pauses, because he can hear behind the tiredness in Tezuka’s voice. Quietly, he adds, “They put up a good fight. It was 2-3.”

 

"Tell me the scores." It's a response that comes without hesitation, no matter the tension in Tezuka's voice. He's probably gripping the phone a bit too tightly now--which he stops, belatedly, because his arm throbs and there's the sudden inclination to rip it off (not for the first time). It _would_ have been much better to hear this from Oishi, but 'having the guts to call' is something that is probably a thing yet in the making. 

 

 _It was Rikkai_ , Tezuka firmly reminds himself at the same time as his mind flips through scenarios. Of _course_ they won. Of course. Without being there to support his team--it's disgusting to think of it that way, but even minus their captain, Rikkai has always been _better_ , and that's been the reason for the pit in his stomach over the past few weeks.

 

Atobe sighs. It’s no fun to torment Tezuka. If he’s honest with himself, that isn’t even why he’d called. “Marui and Jackal, the doubles pair--they beat the Kaidou/Momoshiro pair 6-1,” he says, with his own wince. That can’t be fun to hear. If Hyoutei had played Rikkai, he doubts it would have been much different. “Your Golden pair did better, they only lost 6-4 against...well, they’re the best doubles pair in middle school tennis. Your data man beat theirs, so that’s cheering, and your Fuji, that beat my Jirou? He took their odd little devil protege to 5-7.”

 

He worries at his lip, then stops himself, aghast that he’d almost given himself a chapped lip. “Then...your super rookie went up against the Emperor. He made a good show for himself, went to 5-7.”

 

And that's the part that Tezuka _really_ didn't want to hear. 

 

Honestly, the others are almost tolerable when compared to that. All desire to pace gone, Tezuka simply drops back down onto the foot of his bed, briefly shoving his glasses up to rub the back of his hand over his eyes. "Of all the people Echizen had to lose to--did you speak to him? How is he? Please tell me Sanada wasn't overly _pedantic_ to him." He should be hearing this from Oishi, not Atobe, but Atobe is the one with ears everywhere and is terribly nosy himself, besides. 

 

This is why Tezuka has to hear it from him, not from Oishi. Oishi would be all fretting, because Oishi doesn’t _understand_ Echizen. Atobe doubts he understands Sanada either, not the way he and Tezuka do. “He wasn’t,” he says quietly. “He was far more focused on Yukimura--his surgery was today, the rest of his team was already gone. Echizen is all right, I think. His pride was hurt, but...well. No one can be on top forever. Not even a King, I’ve found. Certainly not a prince. Kunimitsu…” He hesitates, then pushes on. “I think it would have been the same, if you were here. Losses in doubles, wins in two singles. With the form Sanada was in today, I doubt you or I would have beaten him. He had something to fight for.”

 

Echizen with hurt pride sounds about as far from _all right_ as Tezuka can imagine, but he bites that back, and tries not to sigh heavily enough to cause static. It's pointless to start talking about how _he_ had something to fight for in _their_ match, too, and what good did that do for him? Negativity has never been very becoming to him, anyway. "…You can give him this number later, if you want," he finally settles upon. "I doubt he'll call, but knowing that he can might help." 

 

"Keigo-bocchan," a servant calls from the door of his bedroom, knocking briefly. "You have a guest; he doesn't seem to be from Hyoutei, would you like us to send him away?" 

 

Atobe considers. If the servant had specified that his guest is “Not from Hyoutei,” he doubts the person is an adult. “Send him in,” he calls, and adds on the phone, “I’ll tell him. Hell, maybe I’ll even offer him a practice match or something. It’s the least I can do, in your absence. Excuse me, Kunimitsu, I appear to have an unusual guest, from the sound of things.”

 

"Call me later if anything changes--and if you _do_ play a practice match with him, Keigo," Tezuka flatly warns, "be _careful_ with him." 

 

The call barely ends before the guest in question actually ducks underneath the servant's arm, waltzing (more like stalking) into Atobe's bedroom with a frown. "For as big as this place is, it's surprisingly hard to find," Ryouma 'greets.' For the edge of snippiness to his voice, he still looks tired, more than a bit wan, and in general, like he still just rolled right off the tennis court and into Atobe's bedroom. "Were you talking to Captain Tezuka?" 

 

Ah, enough people know that they’re friendly enough to speak that they assume he’s talking to Tezuka. Atobe likes that. “I was,” he confirms, shutting the phone slowly and sliding it onto the table. “He says you’re to call him if you want. I can give you a phone with his number programmed in, if you so desire.”

 

He’s mildly annoyed that he hadn’t had time to arrange himself into a proper pose before Ryouma’s entrance, but that can’t be helped. “Are you…” Whoops, two words in and already he’s not fond of this “consolation” thing.

 

Ryouma scowls at him. What's there to do regarding Atobe but give him a few death glares, anyway, _especially_ if he's been relaying to Tezuka already that he's _lost?_ The idea of that makes him feel sick to his stomach, and he scowls harder still, letting his bag flop down to the floor before he throws himself down into the nearest chair. "You didn't have to tell him _yet_." Oishi would have, but maybe Oishi would have sugarcoated it. Maybe Oishi would have made it sound better. Maybe. Ryouma's not entirely certain what someone like Atobe would say about him, not after he became the reason Hyoutei lost.

 

…Yet he's still here, because his captain isn't here, and who else is there to even talk to when Tezuka isn't here but the guy that beat _him?_  

 

“I told him how close it was, if that helps,” Atobe says mildly (instead of as generous as it should properly sound, but Ryouma’s an ungrateful little shit, so gratitude is certainly out the window. “I thought you had him, by the way. For quite a while. Perhaps I just don’t want to accept that there might be someone else who could beat me like you did.”

 

That hurts his pride to admit, and Atobe isn’t even sure why he’s doing it. It probably won’t make Ryouma feel better. Ryouma’s a little snot that can’t accept condolences or allowances, and that’s one of the things Atobe _likes_ about him.

 

"I've never seen anyone play like that." 

 

There's that sick feeling again, coupled with the sharp, gripping fear that he's just _not good enough_ , which isn't something he's _ever_ felt. Ryouma shoves back a shiver, drags a knee up to his chest, and plops his chin down onto it, frowning. "The match you had with Captain Tezuka--that was the closest I've seen to it," he admits after another moment. "But the way Sanada played…" It makes his loss a dozen times more real to actually voice it, and Ryouma swallows hard around the lump in his throat. "It felt like every time I took a step forward--he just shoved me back ten more. He wasn't going to let me win. With everyone else I've ever played…it always felt like there was at least a chance."

 

This is a complete reversal from anything Atobe’s ever seen from Ryouma. It makes him feel an odd surge of pity, which he quickly tamps down. That won’t help anyone, least of all Ryouma, and the boy would probably be annoyed with him for feeling it. 

 

“Sanada,” he says carefully, choosing his words, “is the palest shadow of his absent captain. But he’s still the second highest-ranked player in Japan’s middle schools, and has been since they were first-years.” He frowns, steepling his fingers. “I’ve never seen him play like he did today. I thought you two were going to be standing on scorched earth. I don’t know if anyone else in Japan could have taken him to a seventh game point. And now that you’ve felt his lightning...be honest. You want to feel it again, just a little.” He knows. He wants to feel that cocky arrogance of Ryouma’s, shoving him back, an impenetrable wall of fire slowly advancing, meeting his ice, making him pull out every trick in the book, bringing him to the point of actually _trying_. 

 

In some ways, it’s even better than facing Tezuka, not that he’d ever admit it.

 

"The only way I want to feel it again is if I can beat him," Ryouma mutters, slowly kneading one hand's fingers into the arm of the chair that's probably stupidly, ridiculously expensive. "I did everything, and it still wasn't enough. I thought--I was _sure_ I was better than that." The thought of meeting that _again_ at the Nationals makes his stomach twist anew, and the idea that _apparently_ there's someone better still makes him want to--briefly, just for a moment--throw his racquet out the window. "I want to win. If I have to play him again, I don't want it to be a matter of whose last point it ends up being." 

 

“You want to crush him.”

 

Atobe understands that, maybe too well. He frowns, sliding a little closer, and props his elbows on his knees, getting level with Ryouma. “This isn’t your first time losing, Echizen. I could see that in you with my Insight. There’s such a hatred of losing in you that you’ve lost to someone else, and often. How much better did that make you, I wonder?”

 

Ryouma lifts his head just enough to glare at Atobe from underneath the brim of his hat. "I don't lose official matches," he petulantly says. "And I _don't_ lose in front of _audiences_." _Least of all in front of my father._ That's the worst, really. It's why he's here and not at home, because going home and having to listen to anything involving that match and what he could have done differently, or how he's still good, just work hard to get even better, would all just add insult to injury. "Have you played him before? Did you beat him?" 

 

“I never have,” Atobe admits. “Perhaps most would say I’m lucky, that Hyoutei has never drawn Rikkai. I don’t think there’s any honor in remaining undefeated if there’s someone stronger out there, though. Better that I played you and lost than if I’d never drawn you, you see. But his play style isn’t flawless. I’d like to test out my insight on him. Look, here,” he mutters, fumbling with the remote until he gets the DVD queued up to where he wants it. “You can see here, in the ninth game--ah, don’t mind me, I don’t suppose you want to talk about it yet. It was just...a _very_ good match to watch.”

 

Rather sulkily, Ryouma rolls to the side, tucking himself up into a tighter ball with his back mostly facing the screen. He probably _should_ look at it, but that's the _last_ thing he wants to do. "Don't wanna look at it. Was Captain Tezuka mad?" 

 

Ah, it would be rather amusing to tell Ryouma that yes, Tezuka was _furious_ , he’s on the plane back from Germany right now. That would teach the little upstart.

 

...but he’s curled into a _ball_ , and Atobe finds himself somewhat unprepared to handle that particular eventuality. He sighs, and flicks off the TV. “He’s not mad. He just wanted to make sure Sanada didn’t try to give you a lecture. The two of them have some _history_ , did you know?”

 

Somehow, that makes him feel even worse. "No," Ryouma moodily replies, and knocks his head lightly against the back of the chair. "Didn't know. What kind of history? No one tells me this stuff." To be fair, usually he doesn't _care_ , but…

 

“Darling Tezuka Kunimitsu,” Atobe drawls, kicking back in his chair just the right amount so he doesn’t fall over, “showed up after Sanada and his beloved Captain dominated a juniors tournament, a couple years ago. He wasn’t even participating, but he walked onto the court and demanded a game. Ah, I wish he still showed his impulsive side. It was so nice to see it, back then.”

 

Ryouma lifts his head at that, staring over at Atobe. " _Captain_ did that? Did he win?" Of course he must have won. There's only been one time that he knows of Tezuka losing, after all. 

 

“Of course he won. Ah, that was before his elbow gave out on him, of course, but…” Atobe smiles fondly, remembering that firm little frown he’d thought was so charming, even at the age of twelve. “He was _so_ stubborn back then. That was when I knew I had to play him, even if it didn’t happen for a while.”

 

"Somehow, you're being kind of gross, Atobe-senpai. You almost sound like Fuji."

 

Affronted, Atobe gives Ryouma a sneer. “I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume Sanada knocked the grace and dignity temporarily out of you. No one likes a sore loser. If Tezuka can stand up and shake my hand after, someone who styles himself a Prince should do no less.”

 

Ryouma's glare quickly returns. "Your match with Tezuka was different. Besides, I don't shake hands with anyone even if I win, so what's the point of doing it if I lose?" 

 

Atobe raises one eyebrow. “Why indeed, if you don’t care whether anyone thinks well of you?” That’s somewhat incomprehensible to him, but he’s never claimed not to care what others think of him. There’s no honor in telling blatant lies, after all. “How long before you start asking me for a match?” It’s why Ryouma has come over, obviously. It isn’t as if they’re _friends_ , not yet.

 

The glare turns somewhat suspicious. "I thought about it," he grumpily admits. "But then you said you've never played Sanada, so now I'm not sure. You probably don't know how to beat him either. Maybe I should just call Captain Tezuka up, you're useless." 

 

“But I beat Tezuka,” Atobe reminds him, “and Tezuka beat Sanada. No one knows Tezuka’s style better than me. And just because I haven’t played Sanada doesn’t mean I don’t know how to beat him.”

 

"…Do you think I could have won if I took him into a tiebreak?" Ryouma finally hedges after a moment's consideration, flipping the idea over and over again in his head. That ends up making him feel sicker by the moment, though, so it's probably better if he doesn't dwell on that aspect of what-could-have-been. Ugh.

 

Atobe hesitates, and chooses his words carefully. “I think his weaknesses become more apparent, the longer he plays,” he says, eyes flickering to the dark TV, mind flickering to what he’d recently watched. “He gets sloppier the longer he fights, but his power doesn’t drop, so no one looks for increased weakness. He’s very...hmm, how to say it without sounding common...he’s an honorable man and an honorable tennis player. That isn’t without its merit or its flaws.”

 

"So what you're saying is that you're sure you could beat him with the way you play." Ryouma uncurls slightly, frowning thoughtfully. "Come to think of it, the most frustrating thing about playing him was how he never deviated from his style…but I still couldn't break through all of it. I felt like I should have been able to." 

 

“You’re used to stressing out your opponents,” Atobe says instantly. “That’s one of my tricks, too. I recognized it in you immediately, whether you know you’re doing it or not. It’s what makes Ku--Tezuka so hard to play against, until the end. There are certain men, like him, that it’s impossible to win against in six games. You can either pull out a miracle, the way Sanada’s Captain does, or you can change the rules.” Atobe shrugs. “Why six games? Why not a hundred? If you can keep going, you can force anyone onto ground that’s yours for the advantage. No one is used to playing games that last so long, except the people who practice it. It’s not in even their styles.”

 

Ryouma's eyebrows raise. "Captain Tezuka says _you_ play like that to overcompensate for what you're lacking in, though."

 

Atobe glares at him. “Then ask _Captain Tezuka_ to teach you _his_ tricks. Enjoy never moving your right foot and collapsing grabbing your shoulder every game.”

 

"At least I don't act like my hand is eating my face, weirdo monkey king." Ryouma drapes himself sideways over the side of the chair. "Seriously, though, play me. I dunno when Tezuka's going to come back." 

 

 _Never, if he’s smart_. Atobe has seen Tezuka’s other “rivals,” small men who’ve seen Tezuka from a distance and decided that his lack of expression meant he’d be fun to push around. None of them ever got close enough to be a real rival, not the way he is, and he knows it. “Grab your racquet, boy. Choose clay court, hard court, or grass court.”

 

Ryouma perks up, just a little, and rolls slowly out of the chair. "Clay," he settles upon, fishing out his racquet. His fingers still try and shake when he grabs it, so he holds it tighter. "Points take longer there, and if you're trying to show off as the King of Stamina, then you'll shine, won't you?" 

 

“I always shine,” Atobe says with a slight huff, grabbing his racquet from where it’s leaning against the wall. “Ah, but have you eaten since your game? It’ll be no fun if you’re not on form. You have the choice of whether to have my cooks make you something spectacular, or grab a quick snack from the pantry on the way to the courts.” _Either way, I’m not playing you while you’re shaking. Tezuka would kill me._

 

"I had like, three Pontas. I'm fine." Ryouma scowls over at him, holding his racquet tighter. "My hand's just tired, I'll get over it. Also, I bet everything in your house is weird and European." _It's definitely not because I'm thinking about not being able to hit Sanada Genichirou's Rai, no matter how hard I tried._

 

“Nonsense, I won’t hear of it.” But because he doesn’t feel like bullying the little shit, he simply snags a couple packages of granola and candy on his way out to the courts, proffering them. “I’d have thought that an American would be more receptive to something out of the Japanese ordinary. Or do I still have lots more to work on?”

 

Ryouma eyes said snacks as if they're poison for a moment before tugging a granola bar out of his hand. "Japanese food is better. Europeans have weird taste, Americans aren't much better. You're really weird and European, how is our captain friends with you?" 

 

“Japanese food is either boring or bizarre. There’s nothing in between plain white rice and still-writhing squid, ugh. And as for Kunimitsu, you’ll have to ask him yourself. I’m rather certain I’m adorable, and he agrees at least a little bit.” Atobe munches on one of the snacks, eyeing the nutritional information with a wince. Ah, well, if he works it out in tennis, it won’t be so bad.

 

"The squid is cool when it still writhes, though," Ryouma absently mutters, munching on his granola bar and tossing the wrapper back to Atobe without a second glance. "And Captain doesn't think anyone is adorable except my cat."

 

_Note to self, discover cat’s secrets._

 

Atobe leans away from the wrapper, snatching it from the air and leaving it on a counter somewhere. That’s probably at least close to a trash can, if he remembers where one is...which he likely doesn’t. “Then he must have another reason for wanting to keep me around. Mysterious, no? Turn left here, then out the French doors.”

 

"Not mysterious. You play okay tennis," Ryouma snidely shoots over his shoulder, following the directions and stepping through the doors with his racquet underneath his arm. Atobe's house is actually more akin to a maze than anything, which is less impressive, more ridiculous. But--"He's probably just using you for your tennis courts."

 

Atobe smiles thinly. Best to let him keep thinking that, probably, even if it isn’t true. He’s not entirely sure what Tezuka would think if he told the little brat about the moments they’d experienced together, nuzzled up, mouths hot and reaching, hands grasping, and even if it’s only been a few moments, there’s no one else in Japan who even has his new number. “Judge the courts for yourself. Clay is on the left. Do you want the ball machines, or shall we just play against each other?”

 

Ryouma trots away disinterestedly, idly scuffing his toe against the court as he rounds the other side of the net. "Not fair that you get clay courts. They don't have these here usually," he accusingly mutters before yanking his hat down more and making his way to the other side of the court. "Let's just go against one another, I want a real match."

 

“I’m surprised you don’t get to play on them so often,” Atobe muses, stretching out his shoulders a bit before he settles onto the baseline. “I’d have thought that...well. You aren’t exactly the least privileged in Seigaku when it comes to such things, eh, Echizen?” He grabs a ball, rears back, and lets fly with a serve that’s fairly different from the Tannhauser Serve. This one has a bit more...fire.

 

Ryouma isn't going to blame the fact that he just played a match barely a few hours ago on how sluggishly he responds, but it certainly has some part in it. 

 

It's hard not to compare that kind of serve to the kinds of returns that ending up whipping by him with more speed than he could have imagined, and for a moment, it makes him freeze, his fingers white-knuckled around his racquet, and the bounce of the ball not something he can focus on when it's barely even there to begin with. By the time he exhales, the ball is gone, and there's no time to react to it--just like it had been during his match. 

 

With a growl, he grabs another ball and throws it in Atobe's direction. "Again. That wasn't the serve you used against Captain Tezuka." 

 

Atobe raises one eyebrow, relaxing back onto his heels, knees slightly bent. “I didn’t think you were here to play _me_. I didn’t have a chance to copy many of his techniques, but I think I have this one down. I can’t do it any slower, though, so you’ll have to speed up. Here.” 

 

He serves again, his body conforming to the image in his mind, that hard, muscular body contorting into the same shape that his own does now, timing the rise and fall of his chest, hand firm yet delicate on the grip of his racquet-- _like a sword, not a racquet._

 

It's impossible to see anything but Sanada now, and for another instant, Ryouma feels his muscles freeze, his fingers hold too-tight to the racquet all over again, and it's belatedly that he dives when he can finally make his legs unlock and his body _move._

 

The ball hits the top of his racquet--really not a good sound, he feels like a five year old trying to play again--and his swing is less than graceful, but at least it's a hit. At least, that's what he thinks before it barely even hits the net. 

 

"Not good enough yet," Ryouma mutters underneath his breath, yanking on the brim of his hat in irritation before just tossing it aside. "One more time." Now he's just _annoyed_ with himself. He should be able to hit that. Why won't his body just listen to him?

 

Atobe’s head tilts, and he looks at Ryouma, curious. “Why can’t you hit it?” he asks, trotting closer to the net. “I’m just emulating his technique, but it looks simple enough. Can you hit it back at me? I’m sure between us, we could figure it out.”

 

"I don't know, okay?" Ryouma doesn't care that it comes out pouty and irritated, because that's all he feels right now. "Just--every time you hit it, it…it reminds me of the match, and I just freeze." He scowls, glancing aside. "It's really dumb."

 

 _Yips_.

 

Atobe knows the look of it, has seen it before, and hadn’t expected to see it in Ryouma--though he supposes it makes sense. Playing Sanada Genichirou is nothing to take lightly. “Don’t think about the match,” he advises. He grabs a ball, tossing it in the air and catching it a few times, brow furrowed in thought. “Maybe...don’t focus on hitting it back as if it’s a game. I’ll just keep serving, and if you miss one, just hit the next one.”

 

_Kunimitsu, you owe me at least a decent makeout._

 

It all sounds like he's just a kid learning tennis for the first time, and that makes him grind his teeth. "Fine," Ryouma mutters. "Though I'd like to see _you_ forget about playing a match with Sanada." 

 

“Forget about it? I’ve been trying to _get_ a match with him. I always get thwarted, somehow. Poor draws.”

 

Never mind that he’s been itching to beat him since he found out about him, and especially since...well. If Atobe can beat Tezuka, and Tezuka can beat Ryouma and Sanada, and Sanada can beat Ryouma…

 

It does beg the question, doesn’t it? 

 

He hits the balls, one after the other, for a steady few minutes before his arm starts to throb.

 

If he just thinks about how it's Atobe…no, that doesn't really work, either. It would have worked before today, because even if Atobe beat Tezuka--well, it was weird. It was a dumb situation and it shouldn't've happened, as far as Ryouma's concerned.

 

Now, he's not so sure.

 

Eventually, there's at least a rhythm to it that he can follow. He's no less jittery, no less nervous, but at least it's something. "This sucks," he mutters, whacking one ball back over the net, though he has to frown at how it skims the top of it. That's not how you should return a serve, not at all. "Sanada Genichirou can go jump off a _cliff_." 

 

Atobe takes a brief break, stretching out his shoulder. It feels weirdly hot to the touch, and he grimaces. “The question,” he says, clipped and annoyed, though not with Ryouma, “is how the hell he keeps doing it without his arm falling off. The only other person I’ve heard of using tactics like that….well.”

 

"He's not human," Ryouma irritably grumps, scrubbing sweat out of his eyes. "If he was, I would've beat him. I'm good at beating _people_." He's not even joking. He's at least 75% sure that Sanada Genichirou is a robot. It would explain a lot. 

 

“Just be glad you weren’t playing his captain,” Atobe advises, grimacing as he pulls back for another stupid, painful serve. “From what I’ve heard and seen, he’s far worse. Still, Tezuka knocked the stuffing out of Sanada years ago, it can’t be _impossible_. You just have to get under his skin, I assume.” 

 

It almost always works for him, no matter who he’s playing, no matter how unshakable. He’s good at getting under people’s skin; if he can do it to Tezuka, he can do it to anyone, he’s confident.

 

The idea that someone is actually worse than Sanada kind of makes him twitch. _He's in the hospital, that's not going to be an issue at Nationals_ , Ryouma tells himself, and he throws himself to the next serve, gritting his teeth as he hits it over with enough force to actually be called a hit. 

 

Except that it goes out, just like his final, losing shot did. 

 

"Damn it--forget those serves, just play me however." Maybe if he just plays someone _else_ , this won't be so bad. Maybe. In theory. 

 

Atobe shrugs. It’s not like he knows how to fight the yips. Someone with his amounts of well-earned confidence could never truly discover those secrets. “Very well. Be prepared to be awed by my prowess!”

 

He can count on one hand the amount of people he’s played where he’d expected his first Tannhauser Serve to be returned, and Ryouma is one of them.

 

 _That_ he can hit. It's not Sanada's technique, and _that_ makes it doable. _Sorry, Atobe-senpai_ , Ryouma wryly apologizes for that particular train of thought, but it's not like he can help it if it's true, especially when he applies his captain's own theory of getting as far back as possible to return that serve when it finally raises up from the ground, just a bit. "You're not Sanada, but that's really good," Ryouma calls out, feeling a bit of tension slither out of his limbs the moment he hits that serve back. Yeah. That's a _lot_ better.

 

This feels a little less like he’s beating up a sad housecat and a lot more like he’s playing a little shit that deserves to have the stuffing knocked out of him--which Atobe _loves_. 

 

He lunges for that return, slamming it back as hard as possible, incorporating just a little of that fire in the hopes that Ryouma won’t notice. He’s not sure exactly why he wants so badly to get Ryouma out of this slump, except for the vague feeling that Tezuka would be pleased.

 

Or maybe he likes the boy on his own merits. Just a little bit.

 

He might be tired from chasing after a million and one of Sanada's serves, but _this_ Ryouma can still chase after. He dives for it, using his own momentum to hit it over harder with a growl of effort, and his arm twinges with the impact of it. 

 

Yes. _Yes_ , he can do this much, he _can_ , there's no reason he can't.

 

This isn’t _exactly_ what Atobe had planned to do on his day off, but at least it’s obnoxiously good exercise. He stretches his legs, lunging hard after the ball, and managing to return it to the bare minimum of “inside the line,” with all the power of his backhand. “Not bad,” he calls, his blood pumping, that cool confidence stealing through him. “Show me what Seigaku can do!”

 

"Thought you would have already claimed to see the best from us!" Ryouma snidely shoots back, lunging backwards and taking away the strength of that shot with a deft lob. Atobe's shots _hurt_ with the power that's behind them, but at least he can see them and read them and not feel like he's entirely backed into a corner by everything that he does. That's not a feeling he _ever_ wants to feel again.

 

Atobe’s eyes light up when he sees that lob, and he leaps into the air, twisting around before sending it smashing back. Ah, he hadn’t actually _meant_ to return it that hard, but there’s something about playing this boy in particular that makes him want to give it everything he has, without holding back. “Then show me what I haven’t seen--show me what Tezuka likes so much about you!”

 

That's a good question, really, when Ryouma is sure Tezuka must be disappointed in him for losing, for trying to pass the torch to him while he's off recovering--

 

It's not like he's ever _tried_ to be good before. Not until going to Seigaku, because just stepping onto the court had been good enough, but now… 

 

That ball has one hell of a bounce, and it makes Ryouma dart back to catch up to it. It's fast, deep in the court, and it takes digging his heels in with a two-handed backhand to send it screaming back to the baseline. His chest heaves with the effort from that, and damn it, maybe if he'd played like _this_ against Sanada, it would have been _different_. 

 

 _This_ is the Ryouma Atobe had wanted to play, back when he hadn’t been sure if Tezuka would pull through with their match or not--not the apathetic yawning boy that had fallen under Sanada Genichirou’s swing. He springs lightly between his feet, eyes zeroing in on Ryouma’s weak spots. “Here,” he calls, and sends a ball screaming at one. “On your left!”

 

"If that's supposed to be a weak spot, Atobe-senpai, you're wrong!" Switching to his right hand at the last minute makes it an easy backhand instead, making it an obnoxious cord ball that _he'd_ certainly dislike having to run up and catch. _Why didn't I do this with Sanada?_ Maybe it's not a healthy question to keep asking himself but _next time_ , he's going to play like this. Like this, and _better_. 

 

“Haha!” This is exhilarating, and Atobe dives for the ball, managing to whack it lightly over the net--though he does bruise up his knee, which is just absurd. Instead of speaking, he gets up as quickly as he can, making for the baseline. It’s always easier to run forward than backward, and with Ryouma’s agility, he can’t be too careful. _Sanada must have thrown him so far off his game, to beat him._

 

Ryouma _is_ starting to understand why Atobe was so hard for Tezuka to play, though. 

 

"Don't start laughing yet," he breathes all the same, grinning as he pops back up to the net and hits the ball before it can bounce. Keeping Atobe off of the baseline seems like a good decision, and his instincts are _usually_ right. It's just hard to win a single point off of this guy without a rally that lasts forever. Good thing he's already been sweaty once today, so whatever.

 

This is what he needs, and Ryouma has never been more sure of that. 

 

 


	3. Fuji & Taka

The days after the Kantou are…different, to say the least. 

 

The team is silent and brooding for the most part. Even Eiji isn't pestering him to go out and do things, and that's mostly in part to Oishi crying alone in his bedroom (at least, that's Fuji's guess). There haven't been any phone calls from Tezuka, but when are there ever? That's a little vexing, but there isn't a single person on the team that really wants to face a disappointed Tezuka anyway, so Fuji supposes he can understand that…

 

And meanwhile--Fuji isn't the most excited about seeing the doctor, but having his sight returned and making sure that there's no permanent damage is probably important. More important is the fact that even Yuuta seems concerned about him, and doesn't run out of the house over vacation to avoid his presence at every turn. Yuuta doesn't exactly dote on him like Fuji had hoped, though. Oh, well. There's another care package delivered that morning, and while he had his hopes up for five seconds that it was Yuuta sending it in disguise, his brother's adamant hissing and snarling about that being anything but true ruins that chance. 

 

The note is too weird even for Yuuta, though. _From your boyfriend?_ Hmmm. When did he acquire one of those, exactly? Fuji is fairly certain he would have remembered that.

 

Finally, his sister lets him out of the house-- _yes, I can see, yes, I'm fine, yes, feeling dizzy is actually a little normal for me_ \--and Fuji makes a beeline to Eiji's determined to get to the bottom of this. 

 

"Eiji. Do you know of anyone that would say they're my boyfriend?" 

 

Maybe they're from Tezuka. No, never mind, that's too forward for him. Tezuka is so gracefully subtle that it's charming.

 

The days after the Kantou haven’t exactly been _fun_. Mostly, Eiji’s been tinkering around with his room so that he can play videogames while he’s running on his treadmill, which he’s pretty sure is a huge success and a brilliant invention all in one. 

 

But Oishi isn’t any fun when he comes over, and won’t play any games with him, and doesn’t even want to practice tennis. Mostly, Oishi wants to cry about how he’s let Tezuka down, and it was probably his own fault for being conceited when he’d shaken Sanada’s hand, and no matter how Eiji assures him it was super manly and cool, Oishi doesn’t seem convinced.

 

He nearly bounces in glee when Fuji shows up, because at least Fuji won’t be sad. He’s not sure Fuji would really know how. “Fuji! Come in, I have melonpan, like a lot of it. I think Mom thought I was going to die without a lot of melonpan or something, so she got me like twenty.” He shoves one into Fuji’s hand, and drags him inside. 

 

“What’d you say about your boyfriend? Did he get you a nice present or something?”

 

Fuji accepts the melonpan without batting an eye, and barely has the time to toe off his shoes before Eiji has him fully in the house. "Well, yes. But I'm actually a little confused." Eiji isn't, which bothers him. What is he missing? "This is…the third? No, fourth time that this person has sent me something, and I actually have no idea who it is." His head tilts. "You don't think it's Tezuka, do you? It seemed a little… _bold_ for him. But, you know, one can dream…it's usually better to imagine one's stalkers as those that you would prefer them to be…"

 

Eiji blinks, hopping over a few toys his siblings had left on the ground, tugging Fuji into his room. “Why would it be Tezuka-buchou? I think a person is only your boyfriend after they ask you out and you say yes, right?”

 

"Mm. But I don't remember anyone asking me out. Did I miss it?" Fuji drops himself down onto the end of Eiji's bed. "I'm usually fairly observant of such things, but it's been somewhat hectic around Seigaku lately." 

 

Eiji laughs, and pokes Fuji’s head. “Did that tennis devil knock it out of you? The Akiyama 3rd match? Remember?”

 

Fuji blinks at him, his brow furrowing. "If I remembered, would I be asking?" Now it's starting to be less confusing, more irritating. Maybe this is some elaborate joke the team is playing on him. That's…new.

 

Eiji’s head cocks, and he shakes it. “It’s fine, I have it on video!” He throws himself into his computer chair and pulls up the file from the game, blacking out the currently-running video, his recent loss alongside Oishi. It isn’t long before that doubles game comes up, the scoreboard showing a victorious 6-0 victory for Doubles 2. 

 

_“Fujiko-chan,” Kawamura Takashi crows in delight, and uses the hand not holding a racquet to dip Fuji deeply. “Okay, okay, my heart is BURNING! Let me be your boyfriend!”_

 

_Onscreen, Fuji’s eyes sparkle. “Of course, Taka-san!”_

 

Eiji hits pause. “How do you forget something like that?”

 

Fuji's head tilts nearly entirely to the side. "But he's holding his racquet. He's always like that when he's holding his racquet." _That's why I keep handing it to him._

 

Eiji shrugs. “Oishi and me and him went to the arcade last week, and he was asking us what kind of present he should get you for your fifth-week anniversary. He was talking Japanese and not breaking stuff, so I don’t _think_ he was holding a racquet then.”

 

Fuji tilts his head back and frowns. Damn. He supposes he should feel bad, but then again…when doesn't he flirt a bit with Taka, anyway? At least this should be an easy fix, and it isn't like he's _upset_ by this particular news…hmmm. 

 

"I wonder if he knows I'm a guy," he idly muses aloud, and then glances over at Eiji. "I've never had a boyfriend. Is it difficult?" 

 

Eiji shrugs. “I guess not, since you’ve been doing it without knowing it for like a month.” He doesn’t mention himself and Oishi. If _that_ were difficult, they wouldn’t do it anymore, obviously.

 

"And he didn't seem upset? Well--I guess he's not if he's sending me gifts. This morning, it was freshly prepared sushi delivered right to our doorstep, all of my favorites. With that in mind," Fuji hums, "I probably should have known. Oh well, hindsight is 20/20 and I've been blind for a few days."

 

“Yeah, that’s the spirit!” Probably!

 

“So, you wanna hang out? Oishi’s coming over in a few minutes to re-watch the Kantou tapes again, his family says he can’t do it at their house anymore.”

 

"Is he still crying? I'm sorry, Eiji, but I'm not sure I can deal with Oishi if he's still crying." 

 

Eiji bites his lip, weighing the possibility of Oishi being crying against Fuji’s common reaction to a crying Oishi. “Yeah, you’d better go. Tell Taka-san I said hi.”

 

"I'll tell him." It's safer this way. Oishi crying incites rage in him that is actually rather uncommon, and it has a lot to do with the fact that he clutches his cellphone and begs for Tezuka to pick up while he's doing it. Imagine that. Fuji flashes Eiji a quick smile as he climbs to his feet. "Thanks for the melonpan. If you get tired of rewatching the Kantou, give me a call and maybe we can practice. For what it's worth, I don't think the two of you played a bad match." 

 

“It would have been a better match if we’d won,” Eiji says, flopping down onto a beanbag chair, then immediately standing when the doorbell rings. “Uhh, maybe go out the window? He’s definitely crying, I can tell from the doorbell.”

 

The window it is. Fuji circles back around once Oishi is inside and his tears are muffled by Eiji's hair (somewhat) in order to grab his shoes. 

 

Right. So. What does one do with a boyfriend, exactly? He's always had _ideas_ , but none of them seem very…boyfriendy, and those are ideas for being with _other_ people, not Taka. Yes, he's already over at Taka's house often enough, and he certainly practices with him enough, and lets him test out his newest sushi creations on him, but…oh well. Fuji supposes that for a lot of people, that's a good start. He frowns down at his phone, contemplative. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Thank you for this morning <3**

**You're going to start spoiling me, though. Want me to come by for lunch?**

 

Seriously, how do people do this. For the first time in awhile, Fuji Shuusuke wonders if he has met his match. He should have asked Eiji for more advice on dating _normal_ people.

 

**To: Fujiko-chan**

 

**Subject: HELLO!!**

**HI HI HI WE ARE GOING TO HAVE A GREAT DAY!!! WE WILL MAKE GREAT DATE FOR LUNCH YEAH BABY!!!!**

 

 

**To: Fuji**

**Subject: Lunch today?**

**Lunch would be wonderful, if you aren’t too busy. I’ve been practicing all day (just stopped) so it might be a little late, if that’s all right with you?**

 

Never mind. Neither of them are very normal. Fuji is suddenly and acutely aware that he's quite pleased with that. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Yes, please**

**Take your time. Your restaurant as usual? I can get my racquet if you want to practice more afterwards.**

 

Maybe he'll become as weird about bragging about his boyfriend-apparent's dual personality as Eiji is about Oishi and his obsession with 'party hats.'  Hmmm. Yes, he could do that. 

 

**To: Fuji**

**Subject: I’ll do my best**

**Is 13:30 okay? If you’re sick of sushi after this morning that’s fine, I have some cash saved after working over the weekend. We could go for ramen or okonomiyaki. I don’t want your stomach to start to hurt or anything.**

 

Oh, no, he's cute. Fuji chews on his lip and wonders when that happened. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: This is what I meant by spoiling me**

**I'm never sick of your sushi, but it depends on how hungry you are. Let's decide when we meet up, okay? See you then.**

 

"Shuusuke, you look a little dazed. Are you all right?" 

 

"Uh huh," Fuji breathes, throwing his phone into his tennis bag and hauling it over his shoulder the moment he arrives home. "I'm _great_ , Neesan." 

 

He is _so_ ready for this. So ready. 

 

Taka is a little nervous when Fuji shows up to the restaurant. He’s always a _little_ nervous, ever since Inui had taken him aside after the Akiyama 3rd match and shown him the tapes. But Fuji looks so sweet today, with that little smile and his eyes all healed up, and Taka can feel his palms start to sweat as he walks out of the restaurant. “Hi, Fuji. Did you decide what you wanted to eat? I have my hachimaki ready if you want sushi.”

 

Ah, yes. He is definitely ready for this. He's pulled this off for over a month without realizing it, apparently, and that means he's good to go. 

 

…Except it's kind of weird _realizing it_ now, and it's sort of like the first time he ever played Tezuka in a real match, or…well, it feels like Fuji guesses it would feel like if he were ever _actually_ pressured in a match. Fuji shoves that thought aside to beam up at him. This isn't about tennis. It's about Taka being very cute and tall and muscles, _yes_. "You've been working so hard lately, Taka-san. You could let me treat you to lunch for a change, you know." 

 

Taka’s face turns a bit scandalized, then embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Fuji, am I not taking you to nice enough places? I know I don’t make all that much money yet, but I could borrow some from my dad…” He’s messing it up, he _knows_ he’s messing it up.

 

"Ahh, no, it's not that at all, Taka-san!" Ah, shit, Taka definitely thinks he's a girl. All right, then. He'll be a girl. Fuji supposes he usually is, anyway. Still smiling, he reaches out, resting his hand on Taka's arm to give it a gentle squeeze. "You've been spoiling me so much, I just wanted to return the favor a little…mm, but, you know, if you're up for it, I'm _always_ into you trying out new kinds of sushi on me. The doctors said I'm completely fine and healthy, so anything goes!" 

 

Taka’s face bursts into a brilliant smile, and he puts an arm around Fuji, leading him inside the restaurant. “I really value your opinion on my sushi, thank you! Ah, I hope I can make something delicious for you today, so please let me get you a seat.” 

 

He leads Fuji to the open seat at the bar, earning both Fuji and himself a wink from his father, who he’s _pretty_ sure has been wondering for a while why there’s a girl on the tennis team. He washes his hands carefully, then sets out his tools, tying the hachimaki around his head before he starts slicing. “You want something spicy today? I have a new idea I think you’ll like, but of course, you’re the judge.”

 

Fuji plops down happily, satisfied that he's avoided potential disaster. Hopefully, the actually-I'm-not-a-girl-thing will not be an issue later on. Hopefully. Maybe he'll just stick a racquet in Taka's hand for that conversation. Sounds good. "You always make the best spicy things! Everyone else always pulls punches, but not you. I bet even my little brother would like it from you, and he's _so_ picky." 

 

Taka flushes at the praise. Even if Fuji tends to like his sushi all the time, it still feels good to hear, because he actually has _reasons_ for liking it, instead of just saying it’s good or bad. “Okay, I’ll do my best. Here, I…” He ducks his head a little, and explains, “I hope you don’t mind, but I named this one the Tsubame Gaeshi.” He sets the roll in front of Fuji, rocking back and forth a little on the balls of his feet with nerves.

 

Oh, no, he's _really_ cute. 

 

Fuji wonders if he's really been overlooking this for the past month. He wonders if he should feel bad about it, or wonder about his own ability to keep a boyfriend while apparently on auto-pilot. More importantly, there's _sushi_ , and breaking open his chopsticks to take the first bite is always exciting when it's something that Taka's made. 

 

He's probably weird when it comes to spicy things, but so sue him, Taka _does_ do it right, and his eyes roll into the back of his head a little bit when he swallows. "That," he cheerfully says, "is _exactly_ what I needed. Taka-san, I think you're the one that's a genius." He has a boyfriend that _cooks for him_. Shit.

 

Taka’s smile intensifies, and there’s a hint of relief in it as well. “You don’t mind the name, I hope--it was just meant to be a tribute, because, well, you inspire me with your tennis.”

 

Kawamura Senior nudges his son’s arm. “Oi, Takashi, we’re getting busy in here. Are you sure your special friend wouldn’t like to enjoy sushi upstairs in our home? Less noisy, I promise!”

 

Taka’s eyebrows draw together. “Is--is it okay?”

 

"It's more than okay," Fuji reassures him, offering Taka's father a quick smile as well. Right, well, if they're _all_ going to play the game of 'Fuji's a girl, right?', then that's fine, he supposes. "We could use a chance to really relax, anyway, right, Taka-san?" _Can I get away with kissing you, I wonder_. 

 

Taka quickly prepares another roll, and brings it with him, leading Fuji behind the counter and up to their apartment. “I’m coming in,” he calls to no one, and toes off his shoes. “Sorry, Mom and Chihiro are visiting my grandparents for the weekend.”

 

He grabs a couple of pillows from a closet, and sets up around a low table in the main room before pausing. “Uh, or we could go in my room, if you prefer? I know it can be kind of noisy from the restaurant.” Fuji’s never been in his apartment before, and he might be sweating a little.

 

Fuji idly reaches over with his chopsticks to steal another piece of the roll right off of the tray Taka is carrying. There's a sushi roll named after one of his tennis techniques, and it's _good_. He is going to eat it, and be very happy about it. Also, it makes his eyes water. That's _amazing_. "I don't think I've ever seen your room, Taka-san. I wouldn't want to impose, but…" 

 

“It’s no trouble at all!” He’s probably a little too eager to say that, but it’s _really_ no trouble, and at least he knows it’s clean. “I’m sorry for the mess,” he says anyway, because what if he’d missed something? He opens the door, bowing Fuji through it, and pulls out a cushion on the floor. 

 

Photos of Seigaku and action movie posters decorate one wall, along with photographs of top restaurants, sushi plates ripped out of magazines and meticulously trimmed. The rest of the walls are bare, but more photographs of friends and family rest on every surface, desk and shelves alike, crammed between cookbooks. His tennis bag sits in the corner, under a framed picture of himself and Fuji after their doubles win, both beaming. “Please, make yourself comfortable, I’m going to find a table.”

 

This just keeps being more of an experience, doesn't it? Fuji drops himself down as he glances around, tilting his head slightly in thought. "You know, Taka-san, I have a few more pictures of us when we've won matches. I'll print off some copies for you." It's quite pleasant to consider their doubles record, actually. Fuji eats another piece of his roll thoughtfully. "I hope we get to play together at the Nationals…at this rate, we'll be in doubles one. Oishi is still crying." 

 

“I hope Oishi will feel better soon,” Taka says, somewhat worried. He sets out a low folding table, setting the sushi on it, and immediately retreats again, returning a moment later with a pot of tea and two cups. “But I’d love more photos of us, too!” He rarely gets any, even though they do, as Fuji knows, tend to pretty much win their matches, as long as his wrist doesn’t get broken or anything. “You always look so nice in pictures.”

 

"Oishi will be fine; he's at Eiji's now, crying away his frustrations," Fuji lightly dismisses, slowly considering his next selection. The end piece, or the middle…hmm. "It's a shame you couldn't play at the Kantou. I like to think that whole day was unusual, though. Do you know how _odd_ it is to be blind? I don't recommend it." 

 

“I think you held up amazingly well,” Taka assures him, pouring tea for both of them. “I think I’d be terrified. The worst thing that ever happened to me in a match was that time I hurt my wrist. Oh, if you want more sushi, I can run downstairs and make you some. Dad won’t mind, he likes you.”

 

 _It was scarier to think of losing, but as if that would happen against someone like Kirihara_. Fuji just smiles rather than voicing that, and decides on the end piece first. "You can make me more later, it's awfully busy down there. I'm glad to hear he likes me, though; mmnn, truthfully--" Because it's now or never to bring this kind of thing up, and it's better to do it early on than to get used to this and be _happy_. "--I'm surprised about that." 

 

Taka’s expression morphs into something like a grimace. “Uh...don’t be mad,” he cautions, and adds, “or at least, I just--I _hope_ you’re not mad, but I’m not... _entirely_ sure he knows that you’re not, um, a, uh….” He can’t say it aloud. “I mean, I didn’t tell him you were or anything, I just told him I was dating someone from the tennis team, and he asked me if it was you, and...I said yes, but he’s, he’s so _not_ mad that I have to wonder, you know? If he thinks…you know.”

 

Oh, dear. Fuji's eyebrows arch lightly, and he eats his final piece of sushi wordlessly. "Don't be mad," he returns, a hint of teasing in his voice, "but I wasn't sure if even _you_ knew. Whenever you have a racquet in your hand, you're a little…mm, _aggressive_ , and pronouns and names get a little switched around. I'm fine with it, before you get worried," he brightly adds. "Lots of people think I'm a girl. Just, you know. I'm not. But your father doesn't have to be any wiser about it if you don't want him to be."

 

Taka gently lays a hand on top of Fuji’s on the table, and says very seriously, “I’ve shared a locker room with you for three years, Fuji. I-I’m not top in our class or anything, but I’m pretty sure I’d have figured it out by now.”

 

"Oh, that's good, then. It was going to get awkward otherwise," Fuji cheerfully says, wriggling his hand underneath Taka's in the next instant to lace their fingers together. Ah, yes, that's nice. "I just wanted to make sure. Honestly, I would have never thought you'd be interested in me because of it, but I'm glad to be wrong." 

 

Taka flushes. “To be honest? I didn’t...well. I was interested,” he assures Fuji, squeezing his hand, “but it didn’t occur to me until after that game that you might be too, until Inui dragged me into his office and showed me the video of the match. He, uh, said I had a responsibility, and his eyes were doing the glinting thing, and there was Inui Juice nearby, and…” He shrugs. “But I took a chance and his advice and you didn’t seem mad, so I’m really happy!”

 

Inui is going to need to suffer. Taka is just too innocent and sweet to be bullied into such things. Though, in this circumstance…mm, maybe minimal suffering. It did make them end up here, after all. "I could never be mad with you, first of all--but I will admit, I was a little surprised! In a good way, of course. You just say an _awful_ lot of things when you're in game mode, and I had always taken them with a grain of salt before…" Fuji muses, shrugging lightly. "Oh well. It all worked out. I've never been asked out in such a manly way before, it was very exciting." 

 

Taka’s smile is bright, and he leans eagerly forward, clasping one of Fuji’s hands in both of his larger ones. “As long as it all worked out,” he says earnestly, “then it’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, you haven’t been upset this last five weeks, right? I’ll get you a better present next week, I promise.” Maybe flowers. Wait, no, Fuji likes the plants that hurt people. He can find those.

 

"Taka-san, your presents are already wonderful. Like I said, you're spoiling me, and it's _very_ sweet." It's best to omit the fact that he didn't know who they were from, and didn't realize that they were dating. Yes, definitely for the best. Fuji thinks for a moment, figures _what the hell, it's apparently been five weeks,_ and leans up without a moment's hesitation, pressing a soft kiss to Taka's lips. It's a little odd to keep things simple and chaste, but it's also…is refreshing the word? He'll call it that. "Thank you for taking care of me." 

 

Taka’s smile is sweet, and not terribly surprised or alarmed. He kisses Fuji again, gently, before settling back onto his cushion. “It’s really, really my pleasure. I’m honored to have you here, you know. I know you must have a lot to do with the team, they all rely on you so much.”

 

 _Do they?_ It's probably bad that he's thinking a lot less about tennis and a lot more about how soft Taka's lips are. Well, shit. He hasn't thought that much about someone's lips in awhile. The last time was when Tezuka was getting on a plane and running off to Germany. "Ahh…well, with Tezuka gone, it's all been a little disorganized. Oishi is still crying on Eiji's shoulder, Echizen hasn't been answering calls, and everyone else is working hard on their own side of things." Fuji shrugs, leaning back onto one hand. "I wonder if Tezuka is going to come back in time to draw the matches for Nationals. I wonder if he even wants to play." 

 

This hadn’t exactly been what Taka had thought they’d talk about when they were finally alone in his room, but he loves talking about tennis, too. “If he does, I’m sure we’ll be in a better position for Nationals. It’s comforting to have him around, isn’t it? I mean, I know I thought it was comforting, though you didn’t need the guidance I always did.”

 

Oh, this conversation probably should stop. It's his fault that it's being talked about--Tezuka is just an _easy_ subject to fall into--but…nope, it's no good. "You're undermining yourself too much, Taka-san," Fuji says with a shake of his head, and scoots closer, wondering how easy it would be to end up in Taka's lap at some point soon. Maybe Taka will just grab him. That seems like it would be pretty nice. "You're the best power player I've ever seen." 

 

“Fuji,” Taka murmurs, though his eyes light up, “you’re embarrassing me. I guess I was worried about if you’d want someone who’s just a power player or just learning to be a sushi chef as your boyfriend, but…” He ducks his head, and almost mumbles, “I’m glad I’ve been making you happy, I think.” He’s trying, at least. No one can say he isn’t trying, even if he’s not sure what the right answers are.

 

"Taka-san, no one has made me as happy as you have." That could be more untrue. Actually, hm. It's a little difficult thinking of anyone that makes him (really) smile and laugh as much as Taka does, and there are very few people he genuinely feels a desire to be around and enjoy the company of. There are people that Fuji _wishes_ could make him feel that way, but when they don't even spare him a second glance, it sort of ruins the idea…

 

No, that is not going to be a thought process right now. Better is the chance to scoot closer still, and end up with a hand on Taka's chest as he peers up at him. "Would it embarrass you too much if I asked how long until your dad comes to check on us? Because I think kissing you a lot sounds a lot better than going out and practicing tennis." 

 

Is there a polite way to say, _I’ve been hoping you’d say something like that for a while_?

 

Taka isn’t sure, so instead he just grabs Fuji by the arms and tugs him onto his lap. Everything feels better with Fuji’s arms in his grasp, more confident and sure and powerful, and it’s with a little of that _hunger_ that he kisses the other boy, ferocious and determined. “Not for a few hours,” he murmurs, “and even then, not in here. He never comes in.”

 

Fuji was right. It's _really_ good when Taka tugs him around, and it actually makes him vividly remember that match where he was dipped and asked out and ooh, that makes him shiver. He could be tugged around like this more often. "Sounds good to me," Fuji breathes, slinging his arms around Taka's shoulders--broad, _broad_ shoulders that he's pretty fond of if he's being honest--and lurching up to kiss him back a _lot_ more insistently than he had before. 

 

Damn, but he wishes he had realized _all_ about this a few weeks ago.

 

Taka had been on the verge of assuring Fuji that it’s okay, they don’t _have_ to kiss, but the way Fuji is kissing him back is really kind of...awesome.

 

“You know,” he murmurs against Fuji’s (really, _really soft_ ) lips between kisses, one hand coming up to thread through silky hair, “I bet...mm, you know how when it’s a boy and a girl, she always wants to go slower, but he wants to…”

 

 _Go faster,_ he tries to say, but he can’t even really think all that well when Fuji is kissing him like that, hard and sweet and deep all at once. Besides, everything he knows about _boys and girls_ comes from Jin and Yuuki, so at least half of it is probably not worth mentioning.

 

"Uh huh." Taka's hands are big and strong and ah, whoops, he might be a little too grabby when it comes to wrapping his fingers up into Taka's shirt and hauling him closer. Fuji thinks he does a very elegant, artful job of flopping backwards, especially when it comes to leaning up on one elbow and dragging Taka down and catching his lower lip with his teeth. "There is _nothing_ you could do to scare me," Fuji breathes, "or make me want to slow down." _That_ should get the point across quite nicely. 

 

Oh.

 

 _Oh_.

 

It makes sense, of course, and with what Jin had said…

 

_Does that mean we both want to go faster?_

 

His hands are shaking, but his heartbeat is steady, and Taka decides it’s safer if he sticks to kissing Fuji over and over, letting himself be pulled down, pulling away every few moments to look down at the other boy, at his lovely flushed face, laughing eyes, kiss-swollen lips, and know that _he’s_ the reason for the flush, the laughter, the kisses. “Fuji,” he breathes, urgent and nervous all at once, trying to brace his weight on his hands and elbows so he doesn’t crush the smaller boy.

 

Yes, good. If he hasn't scared Taka off yet, that's a good sign. He's pretty interested in the way Taka kisses him and the way he _looks_ at him, and that makes Fuji drag his fingers back over Taka's scalp, getting his fingers into his hair to better pull him down. "You can tell _me_ to slow down if you want, though," Fuji laughs, lurching up to snag another kiss. "Mmn, but…you feel really good, Taka-san. I don't want to." Snaking a hand down his spine is kind of proof of that. He is going to end up touching those muscles all the time now, oops.

 

“You look pretty when I kiss you.” The words are husky, urgent, and a little anxious. Taka’s been shaving in the morning for almost a year, but this is the closest he’s come to feeling like a _man_. He hears a little whoosh of air, and raises up onto his arms, apologetic. “Uh, if you want to sit up--I mean, sit with me...I wouldn’t be crushing you, I mean. You could, uh, sit on my lap, or next to me, or…” _Or whatever you want, as long as I don’t hurt you._ He gulps, and says it aloud. “Or whatever you want.”

 

 _You're not going to hurt me_ is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but like hell if he feels like arguing. Far better is giving Taka's chest a little nudge as he starts to sit up as well, fully intent on crawling back into his lap. Guys like it when he's in their lap. Can't blame them, he supposes, because even Eiji can pick him up and toss him around. "I like that you think I'm pretty, Taka-san. And _you_ ," Fuji begins, low and eager, "look really handsome when you're kissing me."

 

Taka tries to thank him, but then Fuji’s _in his lap_ , and saying things in that eager little voice, and _in his lap_ , and then…

 

Jin can _never_ find out about this. 

 

Mortified, Taka wonders if he can pretend it hadn’t happened. His kisses falter, his face burns, and he tries to arrange Fuki slightly _off_ of him, hoping he won’t notice the sudden, embarrassing wet spot.

 

Ahh, well, that's a thing that happens. For all that Taka falters, Fuji doesn't, and rather than let himself be shoved away, he makes a firmer grab for other boy again, catching his mouth in a quick, breathless kiss. "It doesn't matter," he quietly insists. "We can keep going, if you want. I--whatever you want." _Whoo, calm down. Don't scare him off all at once. Don't tell him that you think it's really, really hot and that you'd clean him up given the chance._  

 

“I’m so sorry,” Taka groans, but Fuji is at least still _kissing_ him, and maybe doesn’t hate him yet, even if…

 

“I--if I don’t put them in the wash, they’ll stain,” he says apologetically, and gives Fuji a slightly harder kiss, just to let him know that it’s _not_ his fault. “J-just give me two minutes, I’ll find a fresh pair and we can keep kissing, if you want.” _Please don’t leave._

 

Okay, _now_ is the time to admit a little more. He's getting the hang of this _keeping it all in check_ thing, sort of. "Yeah," Fuji breathlessly agrees, flopping backwards after he's kissed like that to let Taka get up if he wants. "It's…I actually think it's really hot, you know. And flattering. And it's not like you _have_ to put anything else on." Maybe too far with that last part, but, _well_ , if it's just going to happen again…

 

Taka had thought he couldn’t get any more taken aback today. He’d been wrong. 

 

“I-if…” 

 

There’s what’s proper, and there’s what’s right, and there’s what he wants to do very much, with someone that very much wants to do it, when none of his family is _home_.

 

Taka swallows, and thinks briefly of Yuuki, but neither he or Fuji are girls, and no one is going to get their life ruined, and it’s not like this is some prudish country like America, after all. He nods slowly without really standing up, his pulse pounding in his chest, and kisses Fuji again, resting a hand on Fuji’s slender waist, then dipping it down to trace along his waistband.

 

Saying what he wants _usually_ gets him pretty far, but this was more than he expected. 

 

Fuji can't be at fault for what his hands do this time, not when Taka's are being just as bold. He curls his fingers into Taka's pants when he lurches up, eagerly wriggling his way into the other boy's lap with absolutely _no_ concern for mess or stickiness or the fact that _he's_ still hard and not afraid to let Taka feel it. "If you touch it," Fuji breathes into Taka's ear, catching the lobe of it, hot and wet and slick when he tugs, "I won't take long, either." 

 

Those words are enough to make Taka whimper against Fuji’s hair, and far be it from _him_ to be the kind of boyfriend that denies anything. He thrusts his hand down under that waistband, and his fingers close around the hard, slick length of Fuji…

 

And everything changes.

 

“Okay, okay, BABY!!! Fujiko-chan, sweet baby girl! I’m BURNING!!”

 

He sees things mainly in colors when he’s like this, everything alight and ablaze, and all he can see is Fuji as a vision of loveliness in his arms, and feel Fuji pliant and willing against him...and maybe that’s all he needs.

 

He’s back on top of Fuji in an instant, other hand no longer gentle, grabbing Fuji’s hair and yanking it back so he can leave insistent bite after bite on that pale neck, crushing Fuji to the ground and squeezing his waist tight as he pumps his hand hard and rough, grinding his own suddenly hard cock against the inside of Fuji’s thigh.

 

Well, _shit_ , this is _definitely_ what he's into. 

 

His breath leaves him in a rush, bringing him to groan and lurch up and drag insistent, needy hands down Taka's back. His neck is going to look like a disaster zone, but that's really, _really_ good, because his cock is hard enough in Taka's hand that he can't breathe, and the way those calloused fingers feel around him make his eyes roll into the back of his head. "Just--ahh, _fuck_ \--" Not the prettiest thing to roll off of his tongue, but it's accurate when he just can't help but whimper and rut upwards, twisting to better feel the way Taka's cock grinds hot and heavy against him. 

 

Proof of how wound up he is (was) comes in the way that it only takes a few bites and shoves and grabs for him to come all over Taka's hand, his breath a shuddering, ragged gasp when his hips keep slowly, mindlessly rolling up into the other boy's grasp. Fuck. _Fuck_ , when was the last time he came that hard? This needs to happen _all the time_. 

 

As soon as Fuji’s softening cock slips out of his hand, Taka blinks, looking slowly around. “I...Fuji…”

 

There’s no use saying he hadn’t _wanted_ it or anything, but he hadn’t expected everything to go quite so, uh, colorful. Still, Fuji is twitching and panting in his arms, and he’s pretty much thrilled with that development, kissing the other boy again, running tender fingers over the forming bruises on his neck. “Sorry about those, I know what to do if you want to wait a second for me to put a knife in the freezer. Are you okay?”

 

"I," Fuji breathes, a little dazed as his head lolls back, "am _fantastic_. Don't you dare get up, I'm keeping you." Thank god Taka knows how to grab things other than racquets. 

 

Taka huffs out a breath, sitting back on his rump and pulling Fuji into his lap, boneless as he is. It’s not hard to lift him; Fuji is light, and rather limp. “Uh, if you want that to...not happen, in the future, I can always, um, not grab you like that. There’s other stuff we can—”

 

Fuji's hands are immediately on Taka's face, making him look at him. "That was _amazing_ and you can do that every time you see me for all I care," he declares before dragging him in for another kiss. "Have I ever told you I love it when you call me Fujiko-chan? Or your baby girl? Or your spicy love muffin? Or anything else you can think of, really, it's all good and I'm _so_ up for it." Eiji is going to pick on him later if he hears about this. Oh well!

 

“You never told me that,” Taka breathes. He smoothes back Fuji’s hair, kissing it softly on the part, just above his forehead, before pulling back to look at him. His face is gentle, almost not comprehending. “How did I get so lucky? I’m just a regular guy, and you’re...” _So much more._

 

"No, you're a really _perfect_ guy," Fuji sighs out, flopping forward to hook his chin over Taka's shoulder. "Do you believe in fate, Taka-san? Because I could start." Oh, boy, he gets dumb after good orgasms. 

 

“Of course I do.” Taka nuzzles into Fuji’s hair, really enjoying the smell. “There’s an old woman who comes in the restaurant every few days who reads fortunes, and tells you about love. She told me about you.”

 

"Mmn? Really?" Fuji slides a hand absently down the back of Taka's neck, slowly petting. "Hopefully she only had good things to say." Either way, he's pretty sure he can get into that, too.

 

“She said I’d fall in love with someone very beautiful and very special,” Taka says softly, even though he’d thought it was terribly optimistic at the time, “and she said I already knew that person. That was the day before our doubles match. It’s not too, uh, flowery, is it? I know it isn’t very Japanese.”

 

"…Maybe it isn't very Japanese, but I like it that way." He didn't sign up for this…but ending up here feels like a very, very good thing right now. Fuji exhales a long, content sigh and smiles as he presses a kiss to the side of Taka's neck. "I don't deserve you." 

 

“I think you do.” That, as far as Taka is concerned, is that. After a moment, he shifts uncomfortably. “Um, but I should wash these pants. I can wash yours, too, if you want to wait for them to dry--or I could lend you a pair.”

 

"Ah--I think I've got another pair stashed in my tennis bag, actually." Fuji slowly flops backwards, rolling away. "Go throw yours in the wash, then we can relax for the afternoon, okay?" 

 

It’s less than five minutes when Taka returns, now in soft white cotton shorts and nothing else. “There was some on my shirt,” he says, a little sheepishly. “Did you...maybe want to read a book together, or...we have TV in the main room, but I didn’t think you’d want to go out there. As far as games, I only have a handheld.”

 

"Mmn, let's just curl up with a book or something. You look like you'd make a very good pillow right now." Fuji, changed into an extra pair of shorts, lurches up to make a grab for Taka's hand and immediately pull him down. "Unless you actually want to go out, but…I'm pretty happy just spending the afternoon with you here, Taka-san." 

 

Odd, but he _is_ , and Fuji supposes he shouldn't question it. If this is fate, he's okay with it (for once). 

 


	4. Atobe & Ryouma, Atobe & Tezuka

Ryouma wonders when this started becoming a _thing_ that he did. 

 

Well, no, he knows _when_ it started. It's just the fact that it's become a thing for several consecutive days that's quite odd, because he's pretty sure he would have never willingly sought out Atobe's company before. Summer break at least makes it easier, and it's not like Atobe ever turns him away from his doorstep… 

 

Today, it's a little different. Even with one of the indoor courts, Ryouma finds himself soaked with sweat, and he huffs, draping himself over the net to glower in Atobe's direction. "You're not hitting them as hard today. Getting weak in your old age?"

 

Or maybe he's getting better at handling rallies that go on forever, and start with serves like Sanada's. That's a nice thought. 

 

Atobe’s smile is a little worn-out, but it’s a genuine smile nonetheless. “I’m hitting them just as hard,” he says, nodding to the speedometer mounted on the wall. “I checked. You’re just returning them better.” He reaches across the net, ruffling Ryouma’s sweaty hair with one large hand. “You’ll be able to face him at Nationals, with reflexes like that.”

 

Ryouma scowls, but it isn't as if he bats Atobe's hand away. If anything, he kind of shoves his head up into the touch, liking the chance to be petted. "Still not good enough," he mutters, frowning as he flops against the net a bit more. "How long do you think I can keep something like this up, though? I just wasn't able to keep going long enough last time."

 

“Last time, he threw you,” Atobe reminds him. “Last time, you weren’t ready.” Damn, but Ryouma is butting into his hand like that cat he always talks about. It’s enough to make his fingers curl slightly, giving part of his scalp a gentle scratch.

 

“You’ve got that mental focus. Just don’t let him spook you this time, and you won’t have to worry about how long you can go. Worry about whether they’ll be able to drag that great lump off the tennis court when you’re done with him.”

 

"I'll just leave him there to rot," Ryouma mumbles, rocking onto his toes a bit to lean into Atobe's hand. Huh. That feels nice. Momo's petted him like that before, but usually he turns into a joke later. Except there was that _one time_ where it was less a joke, more of something impromptu and fun and exciting, but talking about that now doesn't really happen. 

 

Atobe's fingers kind of skim down the back of his neck for a minute, and that makes him twitch all over. "You can keep doing that." 

 

Atobe raises an eyebrow. This...well. It’s not exactly something he hadn’t considered before, not by any means. Ryouma is just so twitchy and rude and standoffish that Atobe can’t _not_ want to touch him...a bit like Tezuka, really.

 

Unlike with Tezuka, he doesn’t immediately shove the other boy against a wall and lift him. Ryouma doesn’t seem to be in that sort of mood, and he’s being rather cute, besides. Atobe obliges him, running his fingers through black hair that’s somehow more Japanese than his own despite both of them having lived abroad, and trails his fingers down the back of Ryouma’s neck, then forward along his jawline before retreating back into his hair. “I never asked,” he says, in English this time, “but is this more comfortable for you?”

 

He's just going to set his racquet down. Gently. Er, sort of. Ryouma kind of fumbles with it, letting it drop from his hand as lightly as he can manage when his knees threaten to buckle. "…Doesn't matter to me," he manages in English as well, though he might be _slightly_ into the fact that Atobe sounds nothing like an American, and when was the last time he heard good English in Japan, anyway… 

 

Right, that net needs to be not there, not when he lurches forward and grabs hold of the front of Atobe's waistband and considers climbing him. "We don't _have_ to keep playing tennis right now." 

 

 _Ah_.

 

It was a man with an accent much like his own, if he remembers correctly, who once said, _‘I can resist everything except temptation,’_ and Atobe, to be honest, never even tries.

 

It’s easy to lift Ryouma by the waist, dragging him over the net instead of bothering to walk five feet to the side (which would not be very interesting or sexy). The boy is all wiry slender muscles, and is apparently determined as hell to get at his prick. 

 

It’s not like Atobe _minds_.

 

“Go on,” he murmurs, flicking open his belt and shoving Ryouma’s hand down his waistband. “You’ve been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?” His own hands are firm on Ryouma’s waist, and at any given moment, the boy’s toes aren’t _quite_ touching the ground.

 

Ryouma is at least a million times okay with how fast this escalated. It's not like it was that time with Momo, where it took effort to even meet his eyes before, during, and afterwards. Atobe _gets it_ , and Ryouma supposes that makes sense. Maybe it's just a Japanese thing that makes this kind of thing weird and awkward. 

 

They're missing out, but whatever.

 

He likes the way Atobe can lift him, likes even more the way his hand is shoved down, and he's quick to let it wriggle inside of fabric and grab at Atobe's cock. Ryouma's breath leaves him in a rush when he feels it harden in his grasp, and he shoves his face into the side of Atobe's neck, biting a little to keep back the breathy noise he wants to make. "Don't flatter yourself," he mutters. "I just want what I want."

 

Atobe has to admit, Ryouma is kind of a relief. He’s been one anyway, the past several days, with how easy it is to just _play_ him and not have to worry about how he’s going to react later, how he’s going to deal with the boy losing, or anything stupid like that. 

 

This is better.

 

If Ryouma is going to leave incriminating marks (he’ll make up a supermodel later), Atobe can do it, too. He’s not much of a biter, but his hands dig in firmly, yanking Ryouma closer to him as he shoves his own shorts down and kicks them off. “There,” he says, a grin back on his face. “If you want what you want, then _take_ what you want, Little Prince.”

 

Ryouma does, not hesitating for a second. His fingers curl around Atobe's cock, breath hitching at the heavy feel of it in his hand, the way that he can just wriggle up closer with the way Atobe is holding him tight. He shoves at his own shorts with his other hand, hissing at the way fabric catches and tugs, but it's still easy enough for them both to be out, for his cock to be rubbing hot and hard and slick into Atobe's thigh, and that makes him want to bite again. 

 

He does, but it's less skin this time, more the collar of Atobe's shirt that he catches in his teeth and yanks on. "Always wanted to do this on a tennis court," he admits, cheeks flushed. "Guess you already have before."

 

“Just this? Countless times.” _Five times._

 

Atobe’s smile sharpens as Ryouma’s fingers curl around him, inexpertly but eagerly stroking, and he slides his cock hard up against Ryouma’s, even if he has to lift the boy up to do so. “More? Just twice.” He bends his lips to Ryouma’s ear, breath hot and intent over the edge of it. “Is this enough to satisfy you?”

 

Atobe's voice sounds _nice_ rumbling past his ear, and Ryouma groans, shaking his head, his fingers squeezing tight around Atobe's cock. It's a lot bigger than his, almost hard for him to easily grab, and that makes his toes curl the more he thinks about it. "Want more," he insists, and he's glad that Atobe's got his hands on him, because there's a good chance his knees would be buckling otherwise. "So long as it feels good." Because _this_ definitely does. 

 

“And how do you like it?” Atobe nearly growls, rethinking his earlier position on Ryouma not wanting to be thrown into walls and suddenly becoming annoyed that they’re rather far from a wall. Instead, he shoves the boy to the court, right on the center line. “There’s no chance it won’t be good, whatever you want me to do to you.” He’ll stop being confident when he has an unsatisfied lover, which of course will never come to pass.

 

"Just--" Ryouma's head spins a little, his breath heavy and eager, and he shoves himself up onto his elbows, grabbing for Atobe's cock again. "Let me taste it." Where that particular thought comes from, Ryouma doesn't know, but--considering how it makes him squirm, he's not of the mind to protest his own mind. 

 

Atobe fancies himself as rather good in bed, a position borne out by just about everyone he’s taken to it--and part of that that he’s so proud of is the fact that he’s good at knowing what his lovers are looking for.

 

So he doesn’t roll onto his back and let Ryouma work. That would embarrass the boy, and not really give him what he wants. He doesn’t want to taste cock; he wants to be stuffed full of it.

 

Atobe knows the type.

 

So he shoves Ryouma down onto his back, and crawls up to kneel over him, fingers carding through that sleek dark hair again. “Open your mouth,” Atobe murmurs, rubbing the head over Ryouma’s lips, “and I’ll give you all you can take.”

 

Ryouma shudders hard, his eyes fluttering the moment that Atobe has a hand in his hair and that cock against his lips, and--well, it's probably better that Atobe can't _see_ that he comes right then and there. 

 

Not that he _really_ cares, because it actually makes it a little easier just to let his mouth fall open, his tongue sliding out for a preliminary taste. It makes him grimace, but when he's shivering and curling his hands into the hard clay and smelling little but musk and sweat, it's still good. Really good, actually. He supposes he should be angrier that Atobe _gets him_ so well, but he's just _not_. 

 

It’s impossible to miss the wince on Ryouma’s face at the taste, but that makes it even better. Atobe can see the pleasure there as well, the heady rush of being _dominated_ , and he supposes he’s always known Ryouma would be this way. “You don’t have to like the taste,” he breathes, sliding into the boy’s mouth, hips twitching forward as he stuffs Ryouma’s mouth full. 

 

“It makes it better if you don’t, doesn’t it?” he continues, hearing sloppy, messy noises. “You know how much this is getting me off--you can feel it. Doesn’t it feel good, to get used like this?” If Ryouma weren’t making those _faces_ , he’d stop. Probably.

 

Any other time, and he'd want Atobe to shut up. Right now, though… 

 

It's easy to just let Atobe hold his head still and _make_ him take his cock. It makes his jaw hurt, because it's thick and heavy and way more than he's used to having in his mouth. Atobe probably knows it, the bastard, but that doesn't seem to stop him, and that makes Ryouma shudder anew, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The way that he drips over his tongue makes him gag a little, but a few heavy, fast swallows puts an end to that, and he actually can't help but drag his tongue up to taste even more. 

 

Atobe has to wonder (in a dim, vague way that’s separate from getting his cock sucked) whether Ryouma has ever done this before. If he has, it’s a good bet that he hasn’t done it like _this_ , from the startled, overwhelmed amount of arousal on his face. 

 

“Good,” he grunts, hands tightening in that silky hair, yanking Ryouma down harder. “That’s--perfect, just like that, open up for me…”

 

He reaches back with one hand, not wanting to finish fast _alone_ and not sure how much longer he can hold out. When he feels the rapidly cooling mess on Ryouma’s belly, a surge of something like triumph goes through him, and he lets go.

 

“It’s too much,” he groans, spilling on Ryouma’s tongue, pulling out to cover his lips, his cheeks, not wanting the boy to choke. That visual is almost enough to drag out another orgasm, and he pumps himself slowly, enjoying the last shocks as his hips slowly come to a still.

 

It's _definitely_ too much as far as Ryouma is concerned, and he coughs, twisting partially to the side in order to spit out the mess that coats his tongue. It's a lot different than when it just _drips_ there--this is thicker and heavier and makes him inclined never to put his mouth near a dick again, no matter that it still simultaneously makes him shudder and flush hot when it's all over his face. Maybe _he's_ the one that's gross with that in mind. 

 

"Does it…is it _always_ like that?" He's not really sure if he's referring to the taste or how much of a whirlwind the whole thing was. Either way, Ryouma flops backwards, panting up towards the ceiling and finding himself quite sure that he'd do that again, given another five minutes--if it weren't for the quiet shutting of the door that he barely manages to hear over the thud of his pulse. Ugh, if someone was watching them, that's just _weird_. Atobe's house generally is, but that takes the cake.

 

“It is if you want it to be.” Atobe straightens up, tossing his hair out of his eyes. “There are so many different ways to do everything. If you want to--ah.”

 

The flutter of panic he feels is entirely unnecessary, probably. Then again, he’s never seen Tezuka Kunimitsu look _quite_ so angry.

 

Well, it’s too late to hide what they’ve been doing, and that kind of thing doesn’t really appeal to Atobe in any case. He merely shrugs, settling back onto his knees above Ryouma’s belly. “Someone’s back early. Nice flight?”

 

Ryouma blinks, sits up, and then turns a shade of red that probably isn't human. If it were anyone else walking in on them, it would be different. But it's _Tezuka_ , and that's just…not good. Maybe, _maybe_ if he doesn't acknowledge that it's his captain, this can just kind of _disappear_ \--

 

"It could have been better." Tezuka sounds anything but pleased, and that's saying something, because usually he sounds irritated with the world at best. Ryouma's pulse starts thudding too-fast again, and he gives Atobe a shove to start wriggling away from him. "Atobe. A word in private?"

 

“It does seem unavoidable,” Atobe agrees, standing up and grabbing a towel from where it’s draped over the net, tossing it to Ryouma before he puts his shorts back on. “You know where the kitchen is if you want a drink,” he calls to Ryouma over his shoulder, “and the door if you want to leave. Not how I usually end these things, for the record.”

 

Then he shrugs, and nods his head at Tezuka, leading him into a side lounge with showers. “Displeased in me, Kunimitsu? You thought I was saving myself for you?”

 

It takes a great deal of self-control not to simply punch Atobe in the face. Instead, Tezuka draws a slow breath, yanks the door shut, and shoves the other boy back against it in one, fluid motion with a hand on his shoulder. "You said you were _helping him_ the last time that we spoke," he lowly, flatly accuses, the advantage of his height making it easy to glare down at him. "What part of having sex with him is helping him? He's a _child_." 

 

Atobe isn’t entirely fond of being towered over, though he doesn’t mind the whole anger thing. He rather likes the way it makes Tezuka’s eyes light up, though...ah, he’s _really_ less than fond of this height difference right now. It makes him want to stand on a sofa. “He’s not a _child_ , Kunimitsu,” he says, folding his arms across his chest and refusing to back up. Give someone an inch in an argument, and you’ve lost. “I was younger than him when I started, and with someone older. Besides, I _am_ helping him, we were just taking a quick break.”

 

"He's a child." The response is firm and unyielding, and even though Tezuka pulls his hand away in the next moment, his glare doesn't lessen in the least. "When I said that it was acceptable for you to…do whatever with other people, I thought you would at least have the sense not to do it with _him_." 

 

“What part of _sense_ is that?” Atobe counters. The impulse to draw himself up to his full possible height is strong, but he resists. Tall people are better at that, and his own best weapon is a confident slouch. “You left him in charge, didn’t you? All that pillar stuff that’s in his head? Obviously you see him as competent. And Kunimitsu, I doubt a _child_ would have stuck his hand down my pants after I patted his head.”

 

"You are missing the point." 

 

It should be obvious. Very obvious, and for that reason, Tezuka can't quite understand why Atobe doesn't see what's so _wrong_ about it. He exhales a frustrated sigh, shoving away from him. "I'm going to go speak with him. Get out of my way." 

 

“I,” Atobe points out, annoyed, “was not in your way. You are in my _home_. If it’s going to annoy you so much that another mouth was on my cock, you should have just _told_ me.” That probably comes out a little more pleading than he’d intended--but then, Tezuka doesn’t seem to be in a punching mood anymore, which is a large improvement. “I’d have waited for you. I told you.”

 

"It isn't _about that_." It isn't. Not at all. Tezuka's teeth try to set themselves into a slow grind, but he resists. "Regardless of what you might think, Echizen is still a _child_. The last thing he needs is another distraction like this to preoccupy him, and besides that, he's…" It should be obvious. It _should_. "I'm responsible for much of what he does, and I was _hoping_ that you would attempt to be something of a caretaker to him as well." 

 

“What,” Atobe says, a hint of challenge in his voice for the first time, “do you define as a child? Is it just someone who’s in your personal care? It can’t be based on age--he’s barely two years younger than we are, be fair. It isn’t as if others on your team weren’t playing around at that age.” Frustrated, he reaches out, laying a hand on Tezuka’s arm. “I didn’t _hurt_ him. I _wouldn’t_.”

 

"…He's the closest thing I've had to a brother, and trusts me like no one else does." Tezuka twitches a little underneath the touch of Atobe's hand, but doesn't shove it away. "Does that not sound like a situation waiting to be a disaster the moment he finds out about us? And he _will_ , if you keep doing things like this." 

 

Atobe considers for a moment, then nods. “I can see that,” he allows. “He’s far from stupid. But it isn’t as if he’s professing _love_ for me, he just wanted a quick blow on a tennis court.” Not sure if that’s going to make it better or worse, really. “We’re hardly even _friends_ , I’m just trying to help him get over his yips.”

 

"I really don't understand how you can be so casual with your indiscretions," Tezuka mutters, leaning away with his arms folded over his chest. "Nor do I see how having sex on a tennis court has anything to do with getting rid of his yips. Don't answer that if you do have a reason, I don't want to know." 

 

“That was separate,” Atobe explains hastily. “Though I _do_ think it signifies some good progress, if I do say so myself. Don’t hit me. As for the tennis court…” Atobe takes a step forward, touching Tezuka with just the tip of a finger. “You say that like you’ve never enjoyed it there. How sure are you that you aren’t jealous of being in his place? It’s been a long time, eh?”

 

"If you suggest that I'm jealous of being in Echizen's place again, I _am_ going to hit you." Tezuka exhales a long breath, frowning at him. "If you insist on continuing this sort of… _thing,_ I would at least prefer not being knowledgeable about it." 

 

“I never said I was insisting on continuing.” Atobe’s face contorts into something like offended dignity. “I _said_ that I didn’t know it bothered you, Kunimitsu. Hell, even if you and I were just friends, I wouldn’t sleep with him if it bothered you so much.” He bites his lip, a bad habit he hates. “I _honestly_ didn’t know.”

 

Ugh. Tezuka glances away, now finding himself more annoyed at his own reaction than Atobe (especially when he does that lip-biting thing that is obnoxiously cute). He _hadn't_ placed a ground rule against Atobe doing anything with Ryouma, and while it would be lovely for Atobe to be able to read his mind, this probably crosses the line of feasibility. "…It's fine," Tezuka finally, wearily says. "I apologize for snapping at you, but walking in on _that_ was not my ideal way of returning to see you." 

 

“You were going to surprise me,” Atobe says unhappily. “It’s such a sweet and unusual gesture from you, and it was ruined. I think that’s what I hate most of all.” He steps forward, leaning up to tug on a strand of Tezuka’s hair. “And I’ve been _missing_ you.”

 

And now Atobe is going to start doing that clinging, touching thing that Tezuka isn't entirely used to…but oddly finds himself having missed as well. He sighs, shifting his weight back. "I just had the chance to book an earlier flight, that's all. I'll be heading to Kyushu in a few days, so I thought you would appreciate being able to see me first." 

 

“I _do_ appreciate it,” Atobe says earnestly, and decides to push his luck. What the hell, it’s not like Tezuka is pushing him away, and he doesn’t look quite so violent behind the glasses just now. 

 

He steps forward, looping his finger into Tezuka’s chest pocket, tugging gently. “I can think of _lots_ of things for us to do in a few days. But…” 

 

Because Tezuka seems to like him more when he’s _nice_ , for some reason, he doesn’t go in for a kiss. Reluctantly, he says, “You’d better go talk to Ryouma first. He probably thinks you’re mad at him. He _already_ did, for the way he lost at the Kantou.”

 

"Assuming he hasn't already run off," Tezuka mutters, exhaling the breath that he's been holding since Atobe stepped closer. Right. First things first, making sure Ryouma is all right and not convinced that he hates him, _then_ he can come back to this. "You'll have me for a few days," he repeats, more for himself than Atobe this time. "And because I know you already have ideas, I will go along with at least one of them." 

 

Atobe’s eyes glint. “I,” he informs Tezuka seriously, “very much want to pin you to that wall and whisper all of them into your ear while holding your wrists above your head. But it would be ignoble of me to send you off to find your protege with an erection, so go quickly before I change my mind.” Damn, he’s basically a candidate for sainthood.

 

Tezuka opens his mouth, shuts it again, glares, and promptly brushes past Atobe as quickly as he can manage. It will be much safer to get away from him for at least a little while and have _other_ conversations. Otherwise, there's just nothing to be done (and damn Atobe for knowing that). 

 

The fortunate(?) thing is that Ryouma is still around. Annoyed, embarrassed, rather sulky, but still around. _More_ fortunate is the fact that he doesn't ask too many questions about _why Tezuka is over at Atobe's house_ , but there is something of a side-eye when he heads off out the door, and Tezuka doesn't follow. 

 

…Still. It's good to know that Ryouma is okay, knows that he isn't angry about this or the loss at the Kantou, and with a promise to talk to him about tennis later, Ryouma seems pretty content to forget that this afternoon ever happened. 

 

Thank god. 

 

Tezuka ducks his way back into the room with a sigh. As per usual, second thoughts about being here tend to emerge, but _he's_ the one that insisted on an earlier flight home, so he's dug his own grave this time. 

 

Tezuka’s back hits the wall, his arms gripped by strong hands the second he comes in the door. It’s a little dangerous to surprise Tezuka--an almost-broken nose had been his prize, once--but it can be rewarding, too. Tezuka _needs_ to be knocked off his game, craves it on some level, and damned if Atobe doesn’t want to give it to him.

 

“This is what you want,” he murmurs, confident that he’s right, knowing that surety gets Tezuka off just as surely as the strong hands holding him in place. He mouthes hot and wet up Tezuka’s neck (without biting; he doesn’t want Tezuka to be a _spectacle_ ), and lurches forward until they’re pressed body-to-body. “Tell me what else you want.”

 

There's always something of a _jolt_ that goes through him whenever Atobe does something like this. It's even more apparent now, when he's tired and stressed and has a million things on his mind--all of which seem to sort of flutter away without a second's consideration the moment his back slams into the wall. Tezuka swallows hard, feels his fingers curl back into the wall behind him, and ah, there goes his mind shutting _right_ off.

 

"I--" His voice breaks at the edges, unsteady and unsure. "Keigo…just--you, I don't care what else." He's _never_ been good at saying what he wants, not like Atobe is, and he's definitely  not good at it right now when he feels like his legs are going to melt out from underneath him. 

 

Atobe can almost _see_ the stress leave Tezuka’s face, and he _can_ feel the tension leave his body. No one, _no one_ ever needs to know how Tezuka gets when he’s properly bossed around. Atobe knows way too many young men with weird animosity towards Tezuka that would love to take advantage of that.

 

At least he doesn’t count himself among them. Making Tezuka make those faces is probably the best sexual pleasure he’s ever had, and nothing is going to jeopardize that. “Good,” he murmurs, and leans up to place one soft kiss on Tezuka’s cheek before reaching a hand back to grab his ass, harder than can be comfortable. “Do I need to fuck you on a soft bed, or should I take you on the floor because that’s more convenient for me?” he asks, knowing what Tezuka will choose.

 

It's a level above embarrassing how hard his cock is just with that question. Tezuka shudders, sinking back into the wall, into the grab of Atobe's hand, mindlessly reaching out to grab a handful of the front of Atobe's shirt as some form of stability. "Floor," he barely manages to rasp out, trying very hard not to think about it too much before it happens, lest he get off on that alone. He should be more annoyed about this, with _Atobe_ , but that's impossible when all he can think about is how Atobe makes his mind shut up and his body give in when he needs it the most. 

 

Atobe grabs roughly, strong arms lowering Tezuka to the floor. Tezuka would probably be just as happy to be shoved, but Atobe wants to take care of him, no matter how _that’s_ not what Tezuka gets off on. 

 

Once he’s on his back, all bets are off. Atobe knows that, and yanks off Tezuka’s slacks, leaving him bare from the waist down. He doesn’t touch the hard, straining cock between Tezuka’s thighs. He doubts he’ll need to, and Tezuka prefers it when he doesn’t in any case, the loon. 

 

“Just let me take care of everything, Kunimitsu,” he murmurs, pulling himself out from the stretchy waistband, not bothering to kick his shorts off again. Tezuka prefers it when he’s wearing some clothes, even if it’s just athletic practice clothing. “That’s what you like, isn’t it? If I just…” He runs his hands up Tezuka’s thighs, parting them easily. “...use you to get off? Any part of you I want, I think.”

 

When he's with Atobe, Tezuka is fairly certain that he's a little closer to death. 

 

His breath leaves him in a rush once he's on the floor, a hand coming up to his own mouth to clamp down on a breathy, shuddering groan that would be all-too incriminating. As if the rest of his body isn't tell-tale when he just _sags_ underneath Atobe's hands, his legs spreading wide. It's a _blessing_ that only Atobe can make him like this, that only Atobe hits all of those buttons perfectly. His cock is hard enough that it drips onto his stomach, and just the thought of Atobe rubbing off on him--any part of him that he wanted--makes Tezuka's breath hiccup and his eyes squeeze tightly shut behind his glasses. 

 

"Just--don't make me wait." He swallows hard, tries to remember how to breathe normally. "Please." 

 

Ah.

 

Atobe represses a breathy laugh and the assertion that _you’ll be the death of me, Kunimitsu_ , because that’s not what either of them want right now. That will come later, when they’re sated and curled up together and themselves again.

 

For now, he just presses Tezuka’s legs uncomfortably wide, sliding up between them to rub his cock briefly against the skin of a pale thigh. “So smooth. Ah, I’ll make you wait if I want, you look delicious when you’re just waiting for me to make use of you. My own private, _shameless_ toy.”

 

He wills it to be true. Tezuka is so repressed so much of the time, it would do him good to let go of all that, at least when they’re together. He’d taken advantage of Tezuka’s momentary absence in talking to Ryouma, and he has everything he needs with him, starting with a packet of lube that he drips messily over Tezuka’s balls, letting it slide back down the cleft of his ass. “I could fuck you,” he breathes, and pulls out something else he’d located. “Or I could just shove a toy in you and come back in an hour to see if you’ve melted.”

 

Tezuka twitches with the thought, and there's that urge just to slide a hand down and grab his own cock to get rid of some of that _tension_. It disappears in the next instant when he melts at the _thought_ of being left alone for an hour, something shoved up inside of him nice and deep and making him turn into a complete mess as he writhes on the floor--

 

He swallows visibly, his cock twitching, the muscles in his thighs tensing and bunching and shivering from the effort it takes not to just lose himself. He's very, _very_ sure that the moment Atobe puts _anything_ inside of him, he's going to be done. "I…I just…I want to come on your cock." The words catch in his throat, leaving him to lick at dry lips. " _Please_." 

 

Atobe nods slowly, pretending to think, and sets the toy down. “It would be better,” he muses, “if you’re already full when I shove it inside you. Then you could feel it slowly leaking out of you for all that time.”

 

It isn’t a question. Tezuka’s questions aren’t important right now, and he’d just moan anyway, because the head of Atobe’s cock is rubbing over his hole. “You’re going to be so good for me and take it,” Atobe murmurs, fully confident that it’s true. He’s slick and dripping himself, and adds more lube just to make sure, because he doesn’t plan to show Tezuka much mercy. It wouldn’t be welcomed. 

 

If he were going to _really_ make this Tezuka’s greatest night on earth, he’d pull away a bit more, tease him, make him come at least once and bring him to the brink of begging again, but he’s just not capable. Not now, not when it’s been so damned long since he’s had the other boy writhing on his cock. 

 

He’s not _gentle_ when he shoves in, but from the way Tezuka clenches down around him, gentleness isn’t welcomed any more than mercy would be.

 

If there was anything left of his coherent thoughts, it's gone by the time Atobe's cock is inside him.

 

Tezuka's mouth falls open, his breath little more than hitching, ragged gasps as his thighs clamp about Atobe's waist, trembling when he's stuffed so full that his eyes roll back. Briefly, his fingers scrabble at the floor before he's reaching and grabbing for Atobe instead, _trying_ not to scratch, but that's easier said than done when he just wants more, wants Atobe to grab him and hold him down and pull him onto his cock and leave him as little more than a _mess_. 

 

His own cock _aches_ between them, twitching with the slightest roll of Atobe's hips, and Tezuka groans, wriggling down, chest heaving with the effort it takes to try and shove himself harder onto Atobe's cock to feel even _more_ when he's already so sure that it's far, far too much. 

 

 _Calm down, Keigo_ , Atobe thinks frantically, trying not to just come inside Tezuka then and there. It’s easier said than done, but Atobe is a master of his body, and he can do what he sets out to do. 

 

Usually.

 

“You’re doing a good job, squirming around on my cock,” he breathes, leaning down to get a taste of Tezuka’s neck before raising up above him. Tezuka loves that, he knows--feeling pinned, held down, dominated. “But you can’t get it as hard as I can give it to you.”

 

He slams in deep, until he physically can’t bury himself any farther, and then again in a series of quick, brutal thrusts. He alternates, sometimes fucking Tezuka hard and fast and _deep_ , sometimes holding himself inside and just letting Tezuka _writhe_. “Can you come like this? Of course you can. That’s all you’re good for, isn’t it?”

 

Tezuka's voice is little more than a broken, whining keen, his legs falling open when Atobe shoves himself in so deep that he's _sure_ he can't take it for more than a second. It doesn't help. It just makes it feel like Atobe's even deeper inside of him, and in a way, that's _better_ , because he can't get away--he just has to take it. 

 

There's probably something wrong with enjoying this so much, but when Atobe is fucking him, holding him down and telling him how good of a job he's doing, Tezuka can't think of anything that's better. He can barely think of breathing when Atobe tells him _that's all you're good for_ , and the _twinge_ of his back arching, the way his muscles tremble and bunch up whenever Atobe hits him just right inside--god, it's not even that. It's just _knowing_ that Atobe's going to take care of him and get him off and make him love it--that's what makes him come faster than anything, without even a single touch to his cock when he's trembling and full and _lost_. 

 

There’s little that’s better for Atobe’s ego than making Tezuka come without a touch. He holds still for a long moment, then picks up the pace again, helping him ride out the last shocks of his orgasm with a few hard thrusts. They don’t have to be particularly well-placed. Tezuka manages to get off no matter where he thrusts, as long as it’s _hard_.

 

“Just like that,” he murmurs, running his hands up and down Tezuka’s body while he’s over-stimulated, coaxing the last trembling, twitching moans out of the prone form beneath him. “Just like that, show me how well-behaved you are, show me you’re _worth_ my cock inside you. Good hole.”

 

Ah, he’s going to lose it, but he has to wait until Tezuka’s ready--and that doesn’t happen when he’s just come.

 

"C…can't…" Right after he comes, it's too much. Atobe's hands are too much, his cock is too much, and everything is amplified at least a dozen times, leaving him shuddering and aching and with tears welling up in his eyes that he tries so, _so_ hard to keep back. 

 

It's impossible, though, when Atobe keeps fucking him. His cock is still hard and leaking inside of him, and Tezuka can feel it, maybe even more than he could before. He groans, letting himself slump down, boneless and shivering, letting Atobe pull him where he wants without a single protest. That's the best part of it, really--the fact that even if he _did_ protest, he knows Atobe _wouldn't_ stop. 

 

 _This_ is the Tezuka Atobe is looking for, the one who has fully surrendered himself, the one who just lets himself be pulled around and fucked into oblivion, because it gives him something he craves.

 

As soon as Atobe sees the tears, he knows he’s gone far enough, and he can lose himself without risking Tezuka’s pleasure. He’s brutal when he slams in, hearing the rough slap of his hips against narrow ones, watching Tezuka’s legs tremble from being spread so wide for so long, seeing his softening cock quivering, his face contorted in almost pathetic release.

 

“Look,” he grunts, so close he can see sparks exploding behind his eyes, “at what you made me _do_.”

 

That’s all he has time for before he loses himself, coming deep inside Tezuka, filling him hot and wet and _messy_ , and the thought is so appealing that he lets himself slip out faster than usual, fumbling with clumsy fingers as his breath stutters, and he finds a thick plug and slides it easily inside the other boy, only a tiny drop leaking out before he does. 

 

Then he collapses slowly to the floor with a groan. “God, Kunimitsu. You’ll be the end of me.”

 

Tezuka only manages a weak, pathetic groan as he rolls partially to the side, burying his face into the ground as his chest heaves with his next ragged breath. If he hadn't _just_ come, he's so, _so_ sure that he would have come again, just at the idea of being full of Atobe's come, with that plug in him and stretching him wide and keeping it all _in_. 

 

He takes a long breath--holds it--and sags to the floor as he maybe sort of kind of comes close to relaxing. "Just leave me here to die," he eventually huffs out. 

 

“I’m leaving you here,” Atobe says fondly, reaching over to hook Tezuka’s glasses on one finger, tugging them from his face. “But you have to live so I can watch you wiggling around like a good toy for me. You want me to think you’re useful, don’t you?”

 

Tezuka makes a half-hearted grab for his glasses, only to give up a few seconds later with another, breathless noise that's not very much of a complaint. "Is this really what you've been thinking about while I've been gone?" Maybe that's why he's been waking up with night sweats and…other problems. 

 

Atobe leans over, resting a hand on Tezuka’s abdomen and gently pushing down, curious if he can feel the thick rubber inside. Hmm, no, but it’s a nice thought, and it probably feels uncomfortable, given how full the other boy is. “Among many, _many_ other things,” he assures Tezuka. “So many things.”

 

Tezuka thinks that he does a valiant job of not whimpering, but squirming is something else entirely. He grabs at Atobe's wrist, fairly certain that he should be urging  him to stop, but mostly, his fingers just kind of cling to him. It's hard not to lose his train of thought when he still feels uncomfortably slick and full inside, with every wriggle reminding him that Atobe's really not _through_ with him yet. "Don't leave me alone like this." 

 

Atobe sighs, obliging Tezuka--for the moment--by trailing his hand down, slowly nudging the plug forward and back with just the tip of it, knowing the sensation is magnified a hundredfold when it’s inside the other boy. “Ah, but Kunimitsu...if I don’t leave, I’ll be tempted to keep playing with you...and I’m not sure how much more you can take.”

 

Tezuka's face finds its way into Atobe's shoulder, burying itself there when he shudders and arches back in spite of himself. He'd complain on a dozen different levels if his cock wasn't telling him other things, even though he's still sore and twitching and overstimulated. "Don't care," he mumbles instead, huffing out a breath into Atobe's neck. "Just don't leave." 

 

That’s kind of like permission. It’s also a very good reason not to leave Tezuka alone, not that he would anyway. Tezuka is so vulnerable when he’s like this that Atobe’s not sure what he wouldn’t do, and he _wouldn’t_ even trust his own butler with the other boy in this state.

 

Slowly, he strokes down Tezuka’s hair and back, petting him firmly before reaching around to his chest, rubbing his palms over Tezuka’s nipples. They’re not usually all that sensitive, but sometimes, when his body is on fire…

 

“What do you want me to do with you, Kunimitsu? If you say ‘whatever you want,’ I’m going to spank you.”

 

Tezuka is actually kind of annoyed with himself when the idea makes him bite back another noise. He's more annoyed with the way that his nipples are now making him twitch, because that's distracting, and frustrating when he's so sensitive still, and he mostly just wants to rub his cock against something until he comes again and gets it over with. 

 

"I just--I don't know." He swallows hard, shutting his eyes. How is he really supposed to say _it's only really good when your cock is in me_ without sounding completely pathetic? The fact that just thinking it makes his cock harder is bad enough. 

 

Atobe rolls his eyes. He should have known better than to expect any kind of coherent thought from Tezuka when he’s like this. Maybe he just really wants that excuse to spank him, though it isn’t like he needs one.

 

“You can suck me off until I feel like pulling that thing out of you,” he says, sounding as if he’s doing Tezuka a great favor. “But I do have some homework to do, so make sure you aren’t too distracting.”

 

He’d gotten an admission out of Tezuka late one night, and hadn’t had the chance to make it happen yet--but this is as close to perfect as it’s ever going to get.

 

The _problem_ is just hearing that sort of makes him want to come all over himself, and so Tezuka just has to breathe deep for a moment, nodding when he thinks he can, his body already twisting to better make a grab for Atobe and his cock. "Whatever you want," he manages to say, his touch hesitant when it brushes against Atobe's hip. "Just--let me, please." _I'll be good, the last time I sucked you off you liked it a lot, if I'm good you'll like it again._

 

Atobe’s not sure he can get all the way to pretending to be _writing_ , but he can probably pretend to read a book with some accuracy. 

 

Well, he’s at least mildly confident that he can _hold_ a book. For a minute or so, anyway. “I suppose,” he allows, and hauls himself up into an armchair, spreading his legs to let Tezuka kneel between them. He’s soft, which means he’s probably got at least five or ten minutes before he comes again like the hormonal teenager he is. He picks up a book, hoping it looks sufficiently homework-y, knowing Tezuka won’t care, and reminds himself to pay the other boy little to no attention.

 

Well, a hand stroking gently through his hair can’t hurt too much.

 

Tezuka, were he still of sound mind, would question his decision to be so eager about crawling up between Atobe's legs, nuzzling up the inside of one soft yet toned thigh before he mouths at the other boy's cock. There's _something_ about being on his knees and sucking him off like this that makes him shudder all the way down to his toes, because even if Atobe is petting him, there's no _real_ attention being paid there. 

 

There's also the fact that with that plug inside of him, every squirm on his knees is a reminder that he's still _full_ , and that periodically steals the breath from his lungs when his cock twiches and his mind goes blank. 

 

If he's good at anything, it's at making Atobe hard again. He's _learned_ that it's not about being forward or too grabby, because Atobe, no matter how strong and sure he always is with _him_ , much prefers a more delicate touch. A swipe of his tongue, his hands kneading at Atobe's thighs, the drag of his lips over just the head of Atobe's cock--that's a start, and one that makes Tezuka shiver the moment he can feel Atobe starting to harden against his tongue. 

 

Tezuka is _way_ too good at this, and Atobe has to remind himself not to give any praise, encouragement, or even much notice. Instead, he idly pats that sweat-damp hair, giving the occasional sigh, mostly flipping pages one-handed at random intervals. 

 

It only takes a turn of four pages before he’s entirely hard, and it’s _much_ better before that, anyway. He loves feeling himself harden on Tezuka’s tongue, feeling it swell and fill his mouth, feeling him wiggle on that thick plug inside him. 

 

The desire to do _something_ is strong at first, but gradually, Atobe starts to get into the game. There’s something so sinful about having Tezuka simply work at pleasuring him, while he does nothing but sit and read. He even manages to read a bit of the book, trying to focus for a moment on that instead of on the soft wet heat lapping up and down the length of his cock, focusing on the head--ah, and that’s getting more and more difficult the harder he gets.

 

His jaw aches, and Tezuka loves it. 

 

He loves the fact that his own cock is hard again, harder still when he shifts and wriggles and feels the way that plug presses up deeper inside of him. Whenever he can feel the jump and twitch of Atobe's cock against his tongue, that makes it even _better_ , because he knows he's doing a good job even if Atobe isn't saying anything. It takes more work still once Atobe is really hard, because he's thick enough to make his lips and jaw hurt even when he's just in his mouth half-way, and Tezuka has to periodically pull back to catch a real breath, no matter how he wishes he could take all of him much, much more easily. 

 

That’s quite enough.

 

Atobe tosses the book aside, both of his hands threading in Tezuka’s hair now, urging him down farther, gently, gently. “I had planned to get more done,” he informs the other boy in what he hopes is a firm tone, “but you’re just too distracting. I’m not sure what kind of use I have for a hole that can barely follow directions.” 

 

He reaches down, twisting the plug. “Maybe I should just take this out and watch you _leak_.”

 

Tezuka just groans. The sound is muffled, sloppy with the slide of Atobe's cock against his tongue, that makes it all the better. He can't think, can't really draw a full breath, and maybe he's a little too eager to follow the pull of Atobe's hands because he nearly makes himself gag when Atobe's cock slides too far down his throat, too fast. 

 

 _Please, please, please_ is the mindless mantra that he can't quite erase. It's definitely not going anywhere when Atobe's fingers twist at that plug, and all he can think of is the mess that's left inside of him, the fact that he's going to ache for hours after this, and god, he's _thankful_ for that. 

 

Atobe tugs on the base, pulling it until the flared base stretches that little hole, until he can see the discomfort in Tezuka’s eyes, and pushes it back in. “Not yet. I was going to finish inside you a second time, but I don’t think I want my cock in something so messy.”

 

He tightens his hands in Tezuka’s hair, letting his cock fall free with a slick ‘pop,’ and he lurches forward to rub the head against Tezuka’s cheek, leaving a hot wet trail of saliva and precum. “I’ll just use this part of you to get off instead. I know you won’t mind.” Shit, he’s not going to last long, not when he can see Tezuka’s long lashes without his glasses, fluttering and getting sticky with his fluids.

 

Tezuka is fairly certain that he's the basest of whores, and there's absolutely nothing better. 

 

He lurches forward, mindlessly nuzzling Atobe's cock, letting it smear across his cheek and lips. It's impossible not to try and lick up some of the mess that drips over his lips, and he hopes that's allowed, that it's fine, because his cock is so hard that he's fairly certain he's going to die if he can't keep tasting Atobe. "Anything," he pants out, bowing his head into Atobe's grasp to let him tug his face where he wants it, "is fine, so long as you want it--"

 

Atobe is pretty much the worst at staying in character, and he’s sure it’s fine. “Ah, Kunimitsu,” he groans, and that’s all he can do before losing himself, spilling what he’s sure is too much across the other boy’s face, coating him in thick white stripes as his hips finally still, the head of his cock dragging through the mess on Tezuka’s face as his breath comes in rough, ragged gasps. He’s trembling, worn out by the force of so much pleasure in such a force of time--but there’s a reason his stamina is what it is, and if Tezuka needs him to, he’ll be here, and he’ll be ready.

 

Tezuka closes his eyes, rocking back from his knees slightly as his lips part, tongue swiping over his shaking lips. The taste makes him shudder, makes his cock twitch and drip onto the floor, and he _has_ to reach out to grab onto one of Atobe's knees to steady himself and keep himself from just curling up on the floor. "C…can I…" It's hard to speak when it feels like he aches all over, and all he can do is bow his head, breath ragged, the slick, dripping mess over his face and hair a constant reminder of how he's been _used_. 

 

Atobe gives him an indulgent smile, now that he’s got some vague control of his mind and face back. He _can_ finish Tezuka off properly before collapsing, and he _will_ , because he’s good at this and it’s important to him. 

 

He leans back in his chair, arms folded, the perfect picture--especially from Tezuka’s kneeling position--of power and authority. Carefully, he wriggles one foot between Tezuka’s legs, and presses the instep down against his cock. “Show me how good you can be. Let me see you come all over yourself.”

 

It _really_ only takes one glance up at Atobe, one press of his foot, and Tezuka is done. 

 

His hips twitch upward, a useless, mindless rutting when he's already coming, clinging to one of Atobe's knees and burying his face against his thigh when he groans and shudders and spills messily, _gratefully_ all over himself and the floor. The way his body twitches and clenches and _trembles_ brings him to be reminded of that plug with every little squirm, and Tezuka is sure that for a moment he almost blacks out, his breath just not coming into his lungs no matter how hard he tries. 

 

One vague, incoherent whimper later, he just melts entirely, laying his head against Atobe's knee, panting, shivering, and very content to be boneless and _lost_.

 

Atobe pets Tezuka firmly, giving him something to cling onto, some way back into himself. It takes a while before he’s really done, sometimes, but he’s fairly sure that the other boy has hit his max. “Good, so good,” he murmurs, over and over. “Ah, Kunimitsu, there’s no one better than you, you’re always so good for me.”

 

He counts Tezuka’s breaths, waiting for them to slow, to calm, and keeps touching him gently, his hair and shoulders, keeping away from anything too sensitive. “God, you always make me so happy.”

 

It takes awhile from him to come down from his high, but Tezuka eventually starts actually _feeling_ the air come back into his lungs again, and stops hearing anything but the thud of his pulse and the drip of his own sweat. He shivers, shifting, briefly nudging his head up into Atobe's hands before he shakily, carefully straightens up from where he sags against Atobe's knee. 

 

"That…" Tezuka feels himself twitch all over again, and forgoes speaking for another moment when he reaches up to wipe his face with trembling fingers. "Bath," he finally settles upon, flopping back down to lean against Atobe's leg again. "Maybe." _If I can ever think about moving._  

 

Atobe is extremely glad that while he might weigh more than Tezuka, it’s primarily (exclusively, he wishes) in muscle. It’s not too hard to get him up onto his feet, or to get an arm beneath his knees, lifting him. “You can handle the doors,” he grunts, deciding that the granola bar from earlier is _definitely_ worked out of his calorie count for the day by now. “I’ll take care of everything else, just let me coddle you a bit.” At some point, he should probably pull out that plug. Probably.

 

"Don't drop me," Tezuka dimly mutters, but otherwise, utters not a single complaint. If anything, he's that much more content to be wrapped up in Atobe's arms like this, especially with the idea of being coddled sounding better and better by the moment. _This_ is what he came back to Japan early for (that, and being able to wipe off his messy face right onto Atobe's shirt).

 


	5. Rikkai

The door slams, and Sanada stops to apologize as a matter of habit before hurrying over to Yukimura. The club room is empty, but Yukimura has the keys, even on summer vacation. There _are_ some perks to being the club president, captain, and coach all at once. 

 

“We need to have a team meeting,” Sanada announces. Yukimura is the only one there, as he’d known he would be. Since he’d gotten out of the hospital, he’s done rather more _following_ of Yukimura than he’d anticipated, which had resulted in him finding his captain facedown on the ground during an ill-advised “morning run” more than once.

 

The door slamming makes him jump, and subsequently, a string snap when he jerks on the crank too hard. Yukimura growls, eyes slitted when he looks up underneath his lashes. All right. It's Sanada. He's forgiven because he's Sanada. Another string slides into place after that, and Yukimura _carefully_ keeps pressure on the crank this time. He'd much prefer to do this in the privacy of his own bedroom, but he's not _allowed_ to string his racquets at home now, not after a particularly loud argument with his mother about his need for stillness and, preferably, complete silence. So much for getting that now, though. _Shhh, it's fine. I've neglected you for eight months, but I've got you, I'm going to make you_ perfect _again--_ "Uh huh. About?" 

 

“We have to talk to them. It has to be--no, it couldn’t be.” His mother’s words run around in his head again, and even his normally thunderous expression is a little _excessive_ at the moment. “My mother was meeting with one of the school deans as part of her community involvement. Apparently, some girl from our school isn’t returning after summer break. She got _pregnant_.”

 

 _That_ string goes in just fine, and Yukimura exhales the breath that he's been holding. "And what does this have to do with the tennis team, exactly? Most of us are otherwise preoccupied, or incapable of talking to girls. Or they're Akaya."

 

“The culprit—” What other word is there, really? “--was a member of the tennis team.” 

 

Sanada delivers this news with as much gravity as he’s ever delivered a line in a play. Probably more, considering that Yukimura isn’t likely to give him a standing ovation.

 

Yukimura pauses, the pair of wire cutters in his hand now brandished rather like one would a knife. "They're ruining our flawless reputation." 

 

“ _And_ ruining a girl’s life.” At least Sanada thinks that’s a solid second place. He doubts it places in the top ten for Yukimura. “Who the hell could it--Niou. It has to be Niou.” Which is not at all influenced by his personal opinion of Niou.

 

Yukimura's expression twists into a scowl, and he goes about finishing his racquet off with a shake of his head. "If it's Niou, then I'm going to make him run laps in the heat until he's sick. If it's him--ugh, I can't even _suspend him_ because if I do, then we're down our best doubles team. But then I look like I'm condoning it--" That's another growl. "Call them. All of them. Use my phone so they're scared. I want them in an hour earlier than we previously planned."

 

“I already told them to get here as soon as humanly possible,” Sanada growls. “Renji at least should be arriving any minute, but it can’t be him.” He pauses, and frowns. “Can it? I’m starting to wonder. He’s _very_ secretive about that kind of thing.”

 

"Wasn't he having some sort of weird thing with his ex? Ugh, I hate talking about this sort of thing," Yukimura mutters, cutting off the last string and tugging his racquet off the rack to dig his fingers into the strings. _Yes, good_. "I can't imagine Marui or Jackal doing something like this…or Yagyuu. Maybe it's someone who isn't a regular? But then that's just _difficult_ to deal with…"

 

“They said it was a regular,” Sanada reports gloomily. “I don’t like gossip either, but my mother had a fit because she thought it was me, somehow. Trauma after my brother, I suppose. They said it happened after one of our District games.”

 

Yukimura has to sit down. It has nothing to do with the way his back aches for once. "This was because I wasn't here to keep everyone in line. Maybe if I had been here, we wouldn't have to deal with something like this." Then again, if it's Niou, he would have done it anyway.

 

Sanada bows deeply, fully and thoroughly ashamed. “You’re right. This never happened when you were here. It’s my fault. I was just so _focused_ on the win, I didn’t see what must have been right in front of me.” The back of his head still hurts from where his mother had smacked him, before he could explain very fervently that it _wasn’t him_.

 

A dismissive sigh and wave follows that. "It's not your fault. It's not like Niou parades his girlfriends around openly, he just sort of…does what he does with them." Yukimura grimaces. "I hate to say it, but I'm actually glad it's happening during vacation rather than in the middle of classes. Maybe it will end up being forgotten faster that way." 

 

“Excuse the intrusion,” a quiet voice says from the doorway, and Yanagi bows and takes off his shoes before entering, slipping into a pair of his indoor shoes from the cubby and taking a seat. “Ah. There’s a great deal of tension.”

 

"Oh, good, another mind to pick," Yukimura sighs out in relief, rocking slightly to the side as his fingers drum into the strings of his racquet. "Yanagi, have you heard about this? One of _our_ regulars got a girl pregnant. Please tell me that it wasn't you." 

 

Yanagi’s eyebrows raise slightly. “Highly unusual. Japan has the lowest teen birth rate in the entire industrialized world, just point four percent of girls ages 15-19 will give birth, as opposed to 6.4 percent in America, for example. No, Seiichi, it wasn’t me.” 

 

Sanada mutters something about women’s feet not smelling right, and Yanagi gracefully ignores it.

 

"Well, good. With the amount of time that you spend around Akaya, it really wouldn't be good for him to have that kind of bad influence." Yukimura pauses, his gaze jerking over to Sanada, wide-eyed. "You don't think it _could_ be Akaya, do you? I mean--I always thought he'd be _impossible_ around girls, but sometimes, that's hard to tell--"

 

"Cheers," Jackal greets in between dragging a still-eating Marui into the clubhouse after him. "Sorry--we were eating lunch, didn't expect to have to come in so early." 

 

Yukimura's gaze is sharp when it sets upon both of them, and Jackal shudders a little. "You both also need to be accounted for. No one is innocent."

 

“I’m innocent!” Sanada protests.

 

Marui flops onto the bench, polishing off a last onigiri. “Innocent? In what, Buchou? Oi, Jackal, you can’t drag me while I’m eating, I’ll get sick or something.”

 

“Our Captain is attempting to get to the bottom of a tennis club pregnancy scandal,” Yanagi explains. “Apparently, we are all suspect.”

 

“Don’t blame Jackal!” Marui says immediately. “Just because he’s kinda…”

 

"What?" Jackal immediately demands. "What am I?"

 

Yukimura frowns. "Marui, you received almost as many chocolates as I did last year. Is there something you aren't telling us about your secret relationship?" 

 

Marui goes pale in the face of Yukimura’s sudden fury. “S-s-secret relationship?” he squeaks, eyes going wide. “Girls just like giving me chocolate, they won’t go out with me or anything. I _wish_.”

 

“Seiichi, if you’d like to know the percentages of who is likely to be the culprit, I can provide them.”

 

Yukimura folds his arms over his chest. "Go on." 

 

"Well, it wasn't me! Bunta, what were you gonna say that I 'kinda' was?!"

 

The door slams open, and in tumbles Kirihara, tennis bag slung over one shoulder haphazardly. "Cheers! Sorry, am I late? I heard from Sanada-fukubuchou that we were meeting earlier, but I was eating and I didn't want to leave anything behind--um, why does everyone look so weird?" 

 

Yukimura offers him a sweet smile. "Akaya, do you have a girlfriend?" 

 

Kirihara's eyes double in size. "Uh. No! No, why--geez, that's weird, I definitely don't have a girlfriend." He darts over to his locker and shoves his face into it the second after he claws it open. 

 

“Whoa, Akaya has a girlfriend?” Niou asks, emerging from the shadows somehow a moment before Yagyuu. “Sweet, how big are her tits?”

 

“Chance of it being Akaya is point zero one percent,” Yanagi says, with a definitive tone to his voice. “As it is for myself as well, that point zero one being attributed to instances of unknown semen theft and storage.”

 

Sanada gags in the corner.

 

"I said I don't have a girlfriend, Niou-senpai!" Kirihara hisses, his voice edging on shrill. 

 

"Indoor voice, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu politely requests. 

 

"Keep going, Yanagi," Yukimura hums, delicately, _carefully_ climbing to his feet. "I'd like to know the chances that _everyone_ stands of causing this situation before I make my decision on how to deal with this. Also, Akaya, we're going to have a discussion about your girlfriend later."

 

"I don't have a girlfriend," Kirihara whispers, wide-eyed. 

 

“Chances of yourself being the father is actually higher than myself or Akaya, Seiichi, due to your hospitalization and the chances of your semen being collected without your knowledge rising to—”

 

“It’s _not him_ ,” Sanada snarls, looking more scandalized than angry.

 

“0.001,” Yanagi finishes smoothly. “Genichirou, yours fits the standard margin of error of 0.01. The more likely candidates, assuming that a female has in fact become impregnated by a tennis club regular, falls to Jackal at 8.23 percent, Hiroshi at 12.98 percent, Bunta at 31.34 percent, and Masaharu at 47.39 percent.”

 

“Yes,” Marui hisses, pulling out a stick of gum. “Higher than Jackal!”

 

"Why am I ranked so low?" Jackal grumbles underneath his breath. 

 

Kirihara, relieved that the conversation about his supposed girlfriend has come to an end, flops down onto a bench, head banging lightly into the wall behind him.

 

Yukimura's stare immediately zeroes in on Niou. Yagyuu, frowning, edges off to the side slightly. "I have my suspicions," he diplomatically begins, "but I'd personally like to hear from you as to whether or not you think they're…well-placed." _You knocked her up, we all know it._

 

Niou slouches back onto the bench, one eyebrow raised. “Care to tell me what we’re talking about before the Inquisition starts? I thought we were talking about Akaya’s girlfriend’s big tits. How am I responsible for—”

 

“Someone on this team got a girl pregnant,” Sanada growls. Instead of looking at Niou, his gaze swivels to Yagyuu. “And you probably know who.”

 

"There are no big tits involved!" Kirihara wails.

 

Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it, and promptly shoves his glasses higher up his nose. 

 

Yukimura's eyes narrow. "While I _personally_ don't care about what you--or you _two_ , it seems like--do in your spare time, this is the kind of thing that can _immediately_ give the tennis team a bad name. Is that really something you want to be responsible for?" 

 

Niou rolls his eyes, sighs, and shifts in front of Yagyuu to protect him. “It’s not gonna reflect on the tennis club, Boss. Let it go.”

 

Sanada’s hand flies back, but Niou ducks. Fortunately, so does Marui, in just the nick of time. 

 

“Oi, call him off, I said it wouldn’t reflect on the tennis club and that’s all you care about!”

 

"Tell me _how_ it has been dealt with and won't reflect on the tennis club," Yukimura insists, making absolutely no attempts to stop Sanada's assault. " _Then_ I'll consider making sure you aren't slapped." 

 

“She went away, she went away!” Somehow, Niou ends up on _top_ of the lockers in a mad scramble. Sanada hits hard. “Not in a dead way, she’s just going to sit on an island for a while, I swear!”

 

"Keep going. You're not done. Is there proof of this?" 

 

“Like my dad wanted me to leave a paper trail,” Niou scoffs. “Blame Yagyuu, he was supposed to find a doctor that wouldn’t talk!”

 

"Niou-kun!" Yagyuu hisses. "I thought you were _joking!_ "

 

"So your father handled this," Yukimura flatly concludes. "If that's the case, then are you just going to keep letting this happen, or is this going to be the one and only time?" 

 

“One and only time, one and only time! I learned my damn lesson, I— _ow_ , call him the hell off!”

 

"Sanada, you can go hit Yagyuu, too."

 

"Me? But--"

 

"You were a part of this."

 

Yagyuu flinches, and hurriedly takes his glasses off in preparation. 

 

"And when that's done, 150 laps. No, you can't turn it into a relay like last time." Yukimura heaves a sigh. " _Honestly_ , Niou. Condoms are _cheap_." 

 

"It broke," Yagyuu helpfully supplies. 

 

Yukimura scowls. "Buy better ones next time." 

 

“97 percent accuracy, boss. Ask data man.”

 

“That is true, and only applies with correct condom usage,” Yanagi agrees neutrally. “According to my data, given my estimation of how many times our Doubles One team has used condoms, we—”

 

“Sometimes it’s dudes, though.”

 

“Even factoring that in, it’s still surprising this hasn’t happened before. Congratulations, Masaharu, you’re a testament to the fact that the Japanese have not completely stopped reproducing.”

 

"Both of you, just run!" Yukimura snaps, jabbing a finger in the direction of the door. "And if _anyone_ speaks of this again, I'm suspending you from the team, regardless of Nationals!" 

 

"Is he serious about that?" Yagyuu whispers to Niou, hurriedly edging towards the door.

 

Niou scowls, hanging back. “But I didn’t _do_ anything that’s going to affect the tennis team! It’s all getting taken care of nice and easy, this is the _responsible_ thing to do, right?”

 

It’s probably _close_ , at least.

 

He plans to argue more, but then Sanada is coming towards him, and suddenly, laps don’t seem like the _worst_ idea.

 

"Sanada, shut the door after them," Yukimura huffs, plopping himself back down. Yes, this is a good plan. Making Niou run in the worst heat of the day will certain make him much easier to deal with later on. "Now, Akaya--"

 

"What?" Kirihara nervously manages, scooting back closer to the wall. "I didn't have anything to do with anything that Niou-senpai and Yagyuu-senpai did! My sister would _kill me_ \--"

 

"Yes, yes, that's all well and good," Yukimura hums, leaning forward to rest his elbows onto his knees. "But you should still tell us about your girlfriend."

 

There's silence for a moment as Kirihara opens his mouth, shuts it again, and looks around anxiously. "I said I didn't have a girlfriend."

 

"You're a liar. I'm not sure Rikkai's captain for next year should be a liar." Yukimura neglects to mention how much of a liar he is. Facts are irrelevant, anyway.

 

“It’s probably some innocent flirtation the girl isn’t even aware of,” Yanagi says dismissively. 

 

“Flirtation?” Sanada asks, eyebrows snapping together. “No one should have time for such a thing! Who is she, Akaya?”

 

“I don’t even have a girlfriend, and I’m cute,” Marui mutters rebelliously, and pokes Kirihara in the temple. “Spill, seaweed-head.”

 

"Quit it, Marui-senpai! I definitely don't have a girlfriend, you guys!!"

 

"You act like you're five most of the time, how'd you end up with a girlfriend?" Jackal mutters, giving Kirihara's shoulder a prod. 

 

"I don't have one, I'm telling you!" Kirihara whimpers, his eyes plaintively going to Yanagi. "Yanagi-senpai, tell them! I definitely don't have a girlfriend!"

 

Yukimura's gaze swivels to Yanagi immediately. " _You_ are withholding information."

 

Kirihara's mouth falls open. "No! No, Buchou, he's not, I swear! He's just--"

 

"Ya~na~gi," Yukimura hums, scooting closer to him on the bench. "You _know_ that we all like to keep a close eye on Akaya. If you know something we don't, it would be good to share, don't you think?" 

 

"He doesn't know anything!! Except that I definitely don't have a girlfriend!" His voice is starting to crack now. _Great._

 

Yanagi’s smile thins slightly. This is _not_ how he’d planned to spend his morning, and Sanada already looks slightly vengeful. “I don’t particularly feel inclined to gossip with you, Seiichi. Akaya’s business is his own, as is yours. And yours as well, Marui, Jackal, unless you’d like the data on you two shared around?”

 

“I would not like that,” Marui says decisively. “I, uh, would like some swing practice.”

 

"And so we're going to get on that," Jackal firmly, yet hurriedly says, grabbing Marui by the arm to haul him right the fuck out of there. Yanagi can be _just_ as scary as Yukimura and Sanada, so help him. 

 

"This isn't _gossip_ ," Yukimura insists. "This is about _Akaya_ , who is very much my responsibility." He frowns, looking over at Sanada. "You don't think this is an overstep on my part, do you, Sanada?" 

 

"I think it is!" Kirihara whines.

 

"Shh, Akaya."

 

“This _is_ gossip,” Yanagi counters, calmly standing to face Yukimura, “unless you have any kind of evidence that points to him being mistreated or unhappy in any way from this theoretical girlfriend you assume he has.”

 

Sanada’s eyes are on Kirihara instead of his old friend, and watches the shift of his eyes carefully, and every flicker of expression. “Akaya,” he says, not yelling this time, almost concerned. “Is there something I need to know?” Yukimura’s right. The boy _is_ their responsibility.

 

Kirihara nervously looks away from Sanada, to Yanagi, and then back again. "N-no, Sanada-fukubuchou. Seriously, there's nothing! I told you, I don't have a girlfriend. And even if I _did_ ," he firmly says, "she'd be good, really good." 

 

Yukimura's frown deepens. "…So," he casually begins instead, "do you have a _boyfriend?_ "

 

"W..what's with all the questions? This isn't fair! Yanagi-senpai, let's just go practice." Trying to sidestep Sanada is a very interesting process, to say the least, but he wants _out_.

 

Sanada solves the problem of the escaping tennis prodigy by simply standing in front of the door. He’s about as broad as the door, which works out nicely. “Akaya. Tell me who you’re dating.”

 

“This is an absurd interrogation tactic. Frankly, Genichirou, Seiichi, I’m surprised at you and disappointed in you.”

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow. He doesn’t want to _think_ it, but with the way Kirihara keeps looking at him… “Is it you?”

 

 _Shit_.

 

Kirihara turns as white as a sheet. "Why would it be Yanagi-senpai? It's--it's definitely not him, we'd never do anything like that, I already told you--"

 

Yukimura's smile isn't very nice anymore. "How long?"

 

Kirihara jumps out of his skin, turning around to hesitantly look at his captain. "Huh?" 

 

Yukimura's head tilts to the side. "How long have you two been together?"

 

"I just said it's not like that, Yanagi-senpai, _tell them_ \--"

 

Yukimura's teeth set themselves into a grind. " _Yangai-senpai_ needs to think long and hard before he tries to lie to my face again." 

 

“I haven’t lied at all, Seiichi. I merely told you what I am going to repeat: that it is none of your business.” His eyes open slightly, just dark slits. “Unless you think all behavior of your teammates is required to go through you first. I don’t have to tell you what I had for breakfast this morning either.”

 

His expression barely changes when Sanada picks him up by his collar and slams him against the wall. Ah, how tiresome. “If you _hurt_ him, I will—”

 

"Sanada-fukubuchou, leave him alone!" Kirihara grabs at Sanada's arm, a little too slow to try and shove him away, but trying to get between Sanada and Yanagi all the same. "He's--" His cheeks flush, but he draws himself up to his full height all the same. "He's never hurt me, and he's right--it's none of your business what either of us do!"

 

"Sanada, let him go." 

 

It sets Yukimura's teeth on edge to say it, especially when he's fairly certain that _he_ wants to be the one clawing out Yanagi's eyes from his skull. Something about this just doesn't feel _right_ , and for Kirihara to sit there and _defend_ Yanagi makes him even more anxious. "Deal with Akaya outside; I'm going to talk to Yanagi." 

 

It’s with a last glare that Sanada switches his grip from Yanagi to Kirihara, hauling the younger boy outside. If he were any less than certain that Yukimura would be far harder on Yanagi than he himself, he’d have stayed.

 

Yanagi’s eyes are back to bare slits, and he straightens his collar after Sanada’s assault. “While I thank you for your assistance, I doubt it was intended for my good health or safety. I don’t require a lecture, Seiichi.”

 

"You're not getting a lecture. You're getting a warning." Yukimura climbs to his feet, his arms folded over his chest. "I am entirely sure that Akaya still believes in _Santa Claus_ ," he slowly, quietly points out, "so I'm not sure what you think you're accomplishing by being in a relationship with him. But I promise you--the moment that he _ever_ seems hurt, or sad, or _scared_ because of something you've done, the idea of Genichirou breaking your neck will be the _least_ of your concerns. Do you understand me?" 

 

Yanagi doesn’t blink. He rarely does. His voice is its usual soft, even tone as he responds, “You’re right. If he were hurt, sad, or scared because of something I’ve done, neither you nor Genichirou would be my biggest concerns. Do we understand each other?” He doesn’t make any mention of the fact that he’s been quite well-mannered about the fact that his own best friend is dating this sadist. That doesn’t seem prudent.

 

Yukimura feels a muscle in his jaw twitch. "Don't consider this my acceptance of the situation at all," he flatly replies, very much wishing he could whip around on his heel like he used to when he was irritated. Instead, he carefully turns away to pick up his own racquet. "Just get out there and practice. You have a lot to work on considering your last loss." There's really no point in telling Yanagi how much he's going to have an eye on _both of them_ , because dear god, how couldn't he when Akaya still seems like such a child? 

 

Outside, Sanada tries not to be threatening, or terribly violent. It’s not Akaya’s fault, he reminds himself. “How did he get you to go along with it?” he asks, disapproval and suspicion lacing every word.

 

Kirihara stares up at him, wide-eyed and terrified. Shit, shit, shit. Why did this have to happen? He was pretty sure he was so _good_ at keeping this a secret, but now, he's really not sure. "He didn't make me go along with anything! I…it's not like I didn't want to do it!" Usually, he wants to hide when Sanada yells at him…but not like _this_. It's just embarrassing, and he's pretty sure that _everyone_ can hear them, even if Sanada's mostly keeping his voice down now. 

 

“What did he say?” Sanada presses. “He’s much older than you, and more...hmm.” He’s not sure if ‘experienced’ is the right word, and really, all he can muster is ‘mature,’ and that seems cruel somehow, even if Akaya is...Akaya.

 

Kirihara frowns, his brow furrowing as he attempts to mentally calculate. That doesn't go over well, but--"I'm _pretty sure_ that he's only as much older than me as you are than Yukimura-buchou, and you two are really good friends," he insists. "Yanagi-senpai and I just were hanging out a lot, and it just…we just…ugh, I don't _get it_ , neither of us are homo or anything like that, why is this such a big deal?" 

 

_Really good friends._

 

The memory of Yukimura’s kisses comes back to him, and Sanada feels a slight twinge of guilt. It isn’t as if they’ve been exactly _forthcoming_ , after all. Maybe if they had, this wouldn’t have happened...somehow.

 

Sanada sighs, and grasps the boy’s shoulder. “Just tell me if he does anything _strange_. Or if it gets too, uh, _homo_ for you and you don’t want to hurt his feelings. Or if he tries to wash your feet.”

 

Kirihara blinks up at him. "…Why should I tell you if he washes my feet? He already does that all the time," he mutters, ducking out from underneath Sanada's hand. "It's nice. Maybe if you guys didn't make me run so many laps, he wouldn't have to spend so much time massaging them."

 

Sanada grimaces, and sends him off for swing practice with Marui and Jackal. He waits until Yanagi leaves as well, wrestling down the urge to simply whack him with a racquet, and retreats inside to Yukimura’s side. “This is my fault. I was so focused on the team winning that I didn’t even see it.” Not to mention that he’s terrible at noticing this kind of thing anyway.

 

Yukimura heaves a long, tired sigh, and promptly drops his head down against Sanada's shoulder. "No, this is my fault. If I hadn't been in the hospital, I would have been able to see this, and at _least_ monitor it more closely." He bites his lip. "If nothing else…at least it doesn't _sound_ too awful. Not _yet_. I never know with Akaya, but I feel like if Yanagi were doing something _too_ weird, he would be at least a little shaken. That doesn't mean I like it at all, but…"

 

“Renji washes his feet,” Sanada says gloomily. “He doesn’t think it’s ‘too homo.’ I wish I had a drink.”

 

Yukimura lifts his head, staring up at him. "He's seriously doing the feet thing? I wish I was dead."

 

“Did you expect him not to? He does it with _us_.” Sanada rubs his forehead and sighs. “I want to say I wish I knew what they were doing, so I could better know if Akaya was in danger...but I really, really don’t want to know what they’re doing. Renji is just…”

 

"Bizarre? A snake in the grass that's stealing our child?" Yukimura fumes, pulling away. "This is all making my back hurt. I wonder if I can enlist Niou into spying on them. Ugh, but not after what just happened--he's going to sulk for days. Maybe…damn it, why don't we have more friends." 

 

Sanada waves a hand. “Niou’ll do it. He’d walk through fire for you after the hospital. We all would.” If anyone doesn’t, Sanada will certainly be glad to shove him through fire, that’s for sure. “Are you sure you want to know? It’s _Renji_. In _bed_. With...ah, I can’t even say it.” The idea of Akaya in any sort of sexual situation is more than enough to turn his stomach. Miserably, he suggests, “Maybe they’re just holding hands, kissing. Like we do.”

 

"Well, you said Akaya didn't think it was 'too homo'…" Yukimura just as miserably says, plopping down onto a bench when he's pretty sure that he's going to start pacing--and that just doesn't work very well right now. Then, he pauses, thinking, and comes to a very odd conclusion. "Genichirou, are we legitimately the only ones on the regulars that haven't had sex? Assuming…" _Assuming Akaya actually has_. The thought makes him want to gag. 

 

Sanada’s eyes widen, and he feels his stomach churn again. “I... _no_. Could we? No, that’s...I mean, obviously Niou has, and Yagyuu, and if...but what about Marui and Jackal? They complain about not being able to get girls all the time!” No, he’s the second-oldest, that would be _horrible_. And embarrassing. And would make him weep just a little for the future of Japan or something. And would make him _furious_ , since he’s probably the one in the most responsible, loving relationship, and...how _dare_ they?

 

"Genichirou," Yukimura solemnly says, "I think we need to conduct more research. Go get Niou, tell him he can stop running laps if he shares his knowledge. I bet _he_ knows about Yanagi and Akaya's…indiscretions." It still makes him shudder, though. 

 

It’s the work of about two minutes to find Niou running in place beneath a shady tree, and drag him off among his protests of “No, wait, it’s just as tiring as running laps but a lot less sunburn, no, no, not my _hair_ —”

 

He shifts nervously from foot to foot once he’s inside the room again, though he does relax slightly at the lack of heat. “What, you want her name and email and cup size or something now?”

 

Yukimura waves a dismissive hand. "Forget about that. If you sit down and gossip with me about sex for a moment--and pretend that it never happened later--then you don't have to keep running laps at all." God, he doesn't like this. He wants to throw up the more that he thinks about _certain things._

 

Niou hesitates. “I can’t talk about sex while Sanada’s here. Too weird. Ruins the just-us-girls thing. You understand.”

 

Sanada growls a little under his breath, but it’s not exactly something he’s opposed to. “Someone has to go make sure everyone is on task.” He stalks out, throwing a dirty glare behind him to Niou, the wannabe-Casanova.

 

"Thank you, Sanada," Yukimura calls after him before sagging back, sighing long and hard. "Seriously, though," he mutters, throwing Niou a bottle of water. "Who's fucking on this team and who isn't, because I've been gone too long and Sanada is about as observant as a blind man." At least he doesn't have to justify any of this with a _I swear I have a reason for wanting to know this that isn't weird_ , because it's _Niou_ that he's talking to. 

 

“That,” Niou says very seriously, “is ableist. And untrue, because I’m pretty sure any blind man could take Sanada in a contest of who-on-this-team-is-fucking.”

 

But as Yukimura knows, he likes gossip, and this is enough to keep him going strong for a while--and gets him out of laps. “I’m boning at least a few people at any given time. Mostly Yagyuu. We do a girl together sometimes, but not separately. Kinda gay, I know. Marui and Jackal...mostly they do each other and talk about how much they wanna do girls. Lame. Yanagi and Kirihara have been _dating_ and shit for like, three months? Oh, and you and Sanada aren’t getting any. I think that about sums it up. I get laid the most.”

 

Yukimura lets out a rather pathetic, strangled noise from the back of his throat. Damn it, he was _right_. He thinks. Maybe. _Mostly_. "Further clarification is needed," he somehow manages, trying not to slink down into a ball. No, he will not be defeated by this. He will _not_. "By _dating_ , do you mean that they are also having sex, because please tell me you agree that it's creepy and weird and-- _ugh_ \--if they are." 

 

Niou gives him a look that’s more pitying than anything. “Boss…” He thinks back, remembering what he’d seen in the locker rooms a month ago after practice, when everyone was supposed to be gone. “If they were fucking a month ago, they’re probably still fucking. But I don’t think Yanagi does anything like, put a saddle on him and ride him around or anything. Nothing too weird.” Except the feet thing, but it’s Yanagi. That pretty much goes without saying by this point.

 

"I wish I was dead," Yukimura mutters, burying his face in one hand. "But if I die now, then I die a virgin, and that's just pathetic." 

 

“Yo,” Niou offers, and shrugs. “If Sanada won’t put out, you can always hang out with me and Yagyuu tonight. I got more condoms.”

 

"Ah…thank you, but it's really not a matter of Sanada not putting out." It's the fact that he's been a invalid for eight months. Gross. "Well, at least now I know," Yukimura sadly sighs. "Yukimura Seiichi, virgin against all the odds. This will be remedied." 

 

“Pretty weird,” Niou agrees, “given that your boytoy is pretty much an HSK symbol of Japanese virility, huh? But a damn virtuous maiden if I ever saw one, too. Hey, do you think he’d have big tits if he was a girl?”

 

"Huge tits. Bigger tits than you would have. Perfect curves, really," Yukimura says without skipping a beat, drawing a distinctly hourglass shape in the air. "I would be all over that." 

 

“She sounds _so_ fucking hot.” Niou kicks back, slouching against a locker. The longer he keeps this conversation going, the more time he _doesn’t_ have to spend in the sun. “Mine would be pretty big, though. Look at my sister. Whose would be _better_ , Yagyuu or Marui?”

 

"Hmmm. Yagyuu's kind of a noodle. Marui's already sort of nice to hug…so I think his would be better. We are not discussing Yanagi's today." 

 

“Is he in the doghouse for taking Kirihara’s innocence?” Niou asks wisely. “If it helps, they keep it _really_ quiet. I just walked in on them once, or even I wouldn’t have known, I think. Wanna know what they do?”

 

"…I am glad to hear that they keep it very quiet," Yukimura begrudgingly says, though he cringes all the same. "If I don't hear it, I'm just going to _wonder_ …but, ugh. _Hearing it_. Please at least tell me that it's nothing weird." 

 

Niou snorts. “Like I’d let anything too weird happen to the kid while you were in the hospital and not do anything about it. Hell, I’d probably have told you about it even so if Kirihara was bottoming.”

 

It _is_ extremely reassuring to be reminded that Niou has had his back--and Kirihara's--for the past few months, but--"Wait. Akaya isn't…" He actually can't even say it. Yukimura makes a concentrated effort not to gag. "You know what? No. I can't hear anymore of this. It's too weird." 

 

Niou makes a face. “I wasn’t gonna go into measurements. Just thought you might want to know that it wasn’t that kind of thing, that Yanagi isn’t just finding the youngest dude and bending him over. Hey, if you wanna hear about stuff that’s more fun, me and Yagyuu got _trashed_ a few nights ago when we went to go visit my parents. I have stories.”

 

"Pass on all counts," Yukimura sighs, shaking his head as he drags himself up to his feet and makes a grab for his racquet. "Thanks for the insider accounts, but I think it's time for us to actually get to work. You can tell me how much you're corrupting Yagyuu later." He needs to die underneath the sun a little bit to wipe out all of the weird nausea floating around, courtesy of Yanagi and Kirihara. 

 

 


	6. Yanagi & Kirihara

“Akaya.”

 

Yanagi’s voice is neutral and easygoing as always, and he does rather like the way Kirihara always pauses when he talks. “May I have a word after practice?” 

 

At least he doesn’t look _too_ upset, just a little unhappy and confused. Yanagi doesn’t blame him; they’ve done a _very_ good job at keeping quiet over the last few months, and it’s really a shame that he’d underestimated Yukimura’s intuitiveness. He’ll have to account for that in his percentages from now on.

 

Hitting a tennis ball hard and often doesn't really get rid of his nervous energy like it usually does. It's a shame, because it makes him shift and twitch even when Yanagi is talking, which he's normally pretty good about not doing. 

 

Kirihara also gotten pretty good about not just blurting out things, but in this case, when he's pretty sure that Sanada is still watching him from across the courts, he can't help it. "Are you mad at me?" 

 

He _hates_ not knowing. He knows he messed up--somehow--though he's not quite sure how badly. This is just weird. 

 

Not his favorite question to hear, but at least Kirihara doesn’t seem inclined to be angry with _him_ for spilling the beans. “Not at all. I was rather hoping that we could make tonight a special evening, in fact. Do you want to go by the arcade?” That should put him in a better mood.

 

"…I can't help but feel like Buchou's gonna make me stay and run laps until I puke," Kirihara moodily replies, his gaze warily flickering over to the clubhouse when Yukimura and Niou emerge. "But if he doesn't, yeah. That'd be good." He shifts awkwardly and glances to the side. "I'm really sorry for saying anything, Yanagi-senpai. I didn't think they'd figure it out so easily." 

 

“There was a 78.22 chance that it would come to light within a month of Seiichi’s discharge from the hospital,” Yanagi assures him. “He wasn’t going to be as oblivious as Genichirou, not forever. We should probably maintain at least 89 percent of our discretion, however, in my personal opinion.”

 

Kirihara gives into the urge to whack the ball in his hand as hard and fast as he can across the court, glowering after it. "Sanada-fukubuchou _hates me_ , more than he already does because I lost--uggghh, I screwed up so bad, no _wonder_ they kept after me about this," he stresses. "Can we like--how possible is it to make us be at least 110%, um, secretive? Because I think that's a thing we could do if we tried enough." 

 

Yanagi shakes his head slightly. “If he hasn’t slapped us yet, he likely won’t. Besides, perhaps now that the captain has returned, the Law of No Loss will be repealed. It was only intended to ensure our victory at the Kantou tournament without his presence, in any case. However, if you wish to be even more secretive than previous, we can. It would require that we stop going on dates, of course.” Something he is curiously reluctant to do, if he’s being honest.

 

That brings Kirihara to a generous pause, and he frowns, scuffing his toe irritably against the court. "I don't want to stop going on dates," he says, hesitantly glancing over to Yanagi. "I just…I don't want them to be mad at you. Buchou had that look on his face like he was going to step on your head like he did with me that one time, and Sanada-fukubuchou…I don't want him to hit you." Truth be told, he doesn't really get why they _were_ so mad. It's weird, and it sort of makes his head hurt. 

 

“Your concern is touching,” Yanagi admits, and is a little surprised at how rather flattered he is, “but unnecessary. He didn’t hit me. It’s all right if it’s because I lost a game against Sadaharu, but I think he knows it would be hypocritical and morally incorrect of him to hit me for the time I spend with you.” He doesn’t reach out and touch Kirihara, because he’s far more in control of his hormones than the rest of the teenagers buzzing around, somehow.

 

But he wants to.

 

Kirihara's head cocks to the side at the last bit. "Hypocritical? Oh, because he and Yukimura-buchou are such close friends? I don't really think it's the _same_ , though," he mutters, frustrated. "They're just being so _weird_ about it. No one else is being weird."

 

He can’t shield the boy forever. Unlike Sanada and Yukimura, Yanagi believes it’s more about acclimating him to the wider world, rather than keeping him from it. “That,” he says gently, “is because everyone else is having sex, too. Those two are jealous.”

 

" _Really?_ " Kirihara nearly drops his racquet when he whips around to stare at Yanagi. "No way. I--" 

 

It actually clicks in his head, then, and his face flushes red as he quickly looks to the side. Yanagi _has_ to be messing with him. There's no way that his captain and vice-captain are-- _that_. And if they are, they're jealous? Of _him?_ It's both a terrifying and sort of, well, exhilarating feeling all at once. Yanagi probably doesn't need to know that, though. 

 

"…But Yukimura-buchou is really popular with girls." _Like I wish I was_. "So there's no _way_ that he and Sanada-fukubuchou are…" Saying it makes it that much more real that _he's_ had sex with a guy, but, well, still. It's not like he's gay. He's just…yeah. Whatever, he likes Yanagi.

 

Yanagi relents, slightly. Kirihara idolizes both Yukimura and Sanada, and they _were_ only trying to protect him, after all. He can understand that impulse, even has it himself in spades. “All I’m saying is that they wish they were having sex, Akaya. I never said that they wanted to be doing it with each other.” Never said they didn’t, either.

 

" _Oh._ That makes more sense." Kirihara relaxes somewhat and heaves out a long sigh of relief. "That would've been weird. You don't think _they're_ mad at me, though, do you? I mean, they seemed to be going after you a lot, but with Sanada-fukubuchou, it's really hard to tell." And he was really weird about the foot washing thing, besides.

 

“They’re tense,” Yanagi answers, after a moment. He nudges Kirihara’s shoulder, looking down to his racquet. “Practice with me while we’re talking. They will be angry if you don’t keep yourself busy during practice. Don’t forget how stressed they’ve both been while Seiichi was in the hospital. I know they haven’t had time for you recently, but that should change soon.”

 

"It's not about that," Kirihara mumbles, but he fishes a ball out of his pocket all the same. "I know they've been really stressed lately. I just…ugh. I can't believe I _lost_ , and then this comes up…feels like I'm just being even more trouble to them. Buchou hasn't even acted like he's that mad at me about losing, either, which is _weird_ , and I feel like he's gonna kill me in my sleep or something. If I win my next match, d'you think they'll stop being weird?" 

 

“You’ll win your next match.” The last thing Kirihara needs right now is another assault on his confidence, not when he’d played so well and gotten so far, even against the famed genius. “They’ll always be harder on you than anyone else, because you’re next year’s Captain. It won’t be easy to be Number One in Japan, you know.” Probably he should be alarmed by how fond his own voice comes out. Fortunately, no one can tell except Sadaharu, and he’s far from close.

 

Kirihara exhales a sigh of relief. "Yeah. Yeah, I know. None of you three have ever made that part easy, but that's good. Thanks, Yanagi-senpai. You're always good at making me feel better." He'd hug him, but he's pretty sure he feels at least someone watching him, and that makes him jittery. _Maybe they'll all forget about this in like, a day or something. Hopefully._ "Let's just hit until they yell at me for something else, yeah? You're the best one for me to practice with, especially if I end up having to play that freaky 'genius' again." 

 

“As I’m the only counter-puncher on the team, you’re correct.” Not that he’s surprised. Kirihara might lack certain scholarly proficiency, but his tennis knowledge and intuition has always been exemplary.

 

“Do you have homework tonight, Akaya? We can go by the arcade and then to my home, if you’d like.” Not that it has anything to do with his father working extremely long hours, or the fact that Kirihara’s family are thrilled with constantly barging into his room at all hours of the day and night.

 

"I don't _have_ to have homework." It's not like it's due for another couple of weeks, anyway. He can keep putting it off, that's fine. "Buchou says I can neglect my schoolwork for tennis if I want--well, okay, he was a little loopy when he said that, but I'm still taking it at face value. I bet that applies to going to your house, too."

 

Yanagi draws back his arm, letting fly a ball with a rather odd path, the kind Kirihara isn’t quite so good at tracing quickly. He moves so quickly, it makes him too quick to judge where a ball is going--the worst kind of person for him to play, in other words. Ah, so much for a casual invitation. “Very well. We can go to my house another evening, if you prefer.” That should make his intent more clear, if anything does.

 

"Eh? No! Damn it--" He was _sure_ that ball was going to land elsewhere, and he stumbles in the process of changing directions, stretching out his arm to hit it a second before it's out of his reach. So much for hitting a smash, bleh. "I definitely wanna come over! My sister's home and she's going to be weird if we try to hang out there, she's the _worst_." 

 

Yanagi gives him a brief, quiet nod. “Then I suppose we’ll do it at my house. The homework.” This is what he’s signed up for, he knows. Oh, well. There are worse character traits than needing to be led to answers on clandestine questions. 

 

He sends the ball back in the same wobbly path. If the boy learns to trace it, he’ll have a far better chance against counter-punchers in the future.

 

"But I don't have any--" Oh. _Oh_. Okay. Right. This is one of those subtlety things. Kirihara prides himself on figuring that out--though, dammit, chasing after balls like _this_ is never his favorite activity. 

 

The second one is easier, at least, because his body reacts the same way as last time. "Got it," he mutters underneath his breath, catching it harder with the sweet spot of his racquet, and sending it swiftly over the net. It's a lot easier to focus on tennis when he's sure there isn't any homework waiting for him afterwards. 

 

Kirihara learns quickly, which is important, because he knows almost nothing. Yanagi still feels some pride in the speed he picks things up. He continues hitting odd, loopy balls over at the boy, making him adjust faster and faster every time. 

 

There are balls Kirihara hits that he can’t return. There are more that he doesn’t want to return. He still takes the greater number of points--and could have taken more, had he wanted to. 

 

“Enough!” Sanada calls, eyes on the two of them. Ah, how troublesome. “Practice tomorrow morning at the same time. Don’t slack off, or I’ll know about it!”

 

“Akaya,” Yanagi says quietly, “would you prefer to shower and change here, or at my house?” Not that it matters too much either way, but Akaya might think it does, and it’s interesting to see his reactions.

 

The question takes a moment to click, and Kirihara feels his skin flush hot before he can keep back the reaction. Maybe he's just thinking about it weird, but… "We can do it back at your house," he mumbles. "Before the homework." Shit, shit. Hopefully he's not too obvious. 

 

“Very well.” Sometimes, he waits a moment before picking up his bag, just to see if Kirihara will be chivalrous and do it for him. Ah, not this time either, apparently. Perhaps someday, though doubtless the suggestion would be met with a blank stare.

 

The house is empty when they reach it, after twenty minutes of walking (and being treated to a very spirited rendition of a movie Akaya had seen over the weekend--something with lasers, that he’s gracious enough to do the sound effects for). It’s usually empty. His elder sister has Orchestral practice and friends, his father works until the morning most days and sleeps on a futon in his office, and his mother...well, he’s not entirely sure, but he rarely sees her. 

 

It’s the work of a moment to get a basin and washcloth ready, before Kirihara is truly inside. “Take off your shoes,” he says, settling into seiza.

 

"Sanada-fukubuchou acted like this was weird for some reason," Kirihara mutters, flopping down without protest as he tugs his shoes and socks off off. It's actually a relief to be away from the team, which is something that he normally doesn't feel. What a dumb, weird day. Maybe it's the medication, whatever that means. Niou's said something about that before. "I don't get it. Are they really that jealous that they're gonna be jerks about _everything_? Because I'm gonna say something if they keep it up." 

 

“As long as we’re discreet--that means quiet and secretive--about it, they’ll have no call to say anything,” Yanagi assures him, moving precise hands to swipe the washcloth over Kirihara’s feet. They’re so long and gawky, part of the coltishness of his body that Yanagi finds so charming--hands too big, feet too big, the rest of his body hurriedly catching up. “Genichirou is just nervous about his own body. That’s very common in virgins.” If Sanada and Yukimura are going to upset Kirihara, Yanagi is going to get a little of his own back.

 

"I can't believe that I had sex before Sanada-fukubuchou--or _Yukimura-buchou_ ," Kirihara says, somewhat in awe of himself because of it. Sanada definitely has to be jealous of that part, _and_ this part, if he's guessing correctly. Yanagi's hands always feel really nice, and it's actually usually enough to put him to sleep. Not right now though, definitely not right now. He fights back a yawn and idly wriggles his toes. "Dunno why he'd be so weird about his body, though. I wish _I_ had muscles like that…"

 

“I like your muscles.”

 

Yanagi gives him a little smile, flicking one of those toes with the tips of his fingers before setting his feet gently on the ground. “There, all clean. Feel better?” At least Kirihara always does seem to enjoy their little sessions, even if they nearly put him to sleep sometimes.

 

Yanagi has a way of complimenting him that makes his heart thud oddly, and it's _already_ going too fast (or so the doctors try and tell him--he thinks it's just fine). Kirihara nods, shifting to pull his legs underneath himself when he leans closer. "One of these days, I'm gonna be taller than you," he decides, very resolute. "Not too much longer, either. Then maybe more muscles." 

 

“I’d like looking up at you,” Yanagi muses, leaning in and letting his eyes close. Kirihara usually at least knows _that_ cue. “It’s like when I’m kneeling in front of you and we kiss, but all the time.” If he misses the head tilt, he’ll probably at _least_ get it from that comment.

 

 _That_ idea is nice. On top of that, Kirihara's very pleased for himself for following along with this, because he _definitely_ gets that Yanagi wants to kiss, and while he hasn't always been the quickest about picking up on that, he's definitely got it right now. 

 

"…You _do_ look really nice when you're looking up at me, Yanagi-senpai," Kirihara murmurs, and right, he's got this, just enough of a head tilt not to end up bumping their noses so their lips can brush--

 

And then there's a knock at the door. 

 

Kirihara growls, jerking back, more disappointed than angry. "Do you think it's your sister coming home early?" he asks, _trying_ not to sound like he's pouting too much, but it's hard not to. 

 

“Hiromi rarely knocks on our own front door,” Yanagi says with a mild frown, brushing a hand against Kirihara’s hair before standing. “Wait just a moment, please.”

 

He opens the door, blinking slightly up, for once, at the guest. “Sadaharu. This is a surprise.”

 

Inui shifts, pushing his glasses up with one finger. "Renji. Is now a good time? I thought you might appreciate a chance to review our match together."

 

"Who is it, Yanagi-senpai?" Kirihara grouses, climbing to his feet and padding up behind him, only to end up scowling as he flops his head against Yanagi's shoulder. "Hey, isn't that the Seigaku guy you lost to? Gross."

 

Inui bites his tongue. If he had known Yanagi was _babysitting_ …well, to be fair, he was pretty certain he had Yanagi's schedule down. Kirihara always seems to be an outlier. "…Or if you have company, perhaps not." 

 

Yanagi smirks in a way that Kirihara probably can’t see. Inui will. “It appears your data about my schedule is off, Sadaharu.” It does feel good to one-up him a bit, after that loss. It’s also possible that he isn’t taking it quite as well as he had hoped.

 

He sort of wants to reach out--Inui’s gotten so _broad_ over the last few years, and it’s quite impressive--but he refrains, mostly because Kirihara is sort of flopping on him. “My data may also be incorrect. I had thought there was a 71.43 percent chance you would wait for me to contact you first...unless this isn’t actually about the match.”

 

"Considering there was a 62 percent chance that you _wouldn't_ contact me, I figured I would abandon my data for once, and simply show up on your doorstep." Inui leans forward a bit, a smirk of his own in place. "It served me well enough during the match, so I thought it might serve me well here." Yes, that was _so_ smooth. 

 

…though Kirihara's growling doesn't do much for the mood. Inui ignores that. 

 

“You never abandoned your data, Sadaharu. That was a clever ruse.” Yanagi’s eyebrow twitches, and he reaches out a single finger, poking Inui in the chest very lightly. “Perhaps too clever, if you’ve managed to outwit yourself, though I admit that’s easier than outwitting me.”

 

"…Do you always have to point out things like that?" Inui grumbles, shoulders sagging slightly. "If you don't want to watch the tapes, we don't have to." _Pawn your babysitting off onto someone else._ "I would _mostly_ enjoy a chance to talk, if I'm going to be 100 percent honest." 

 

_Pitiful. How did I lose to him?_

 

Because Inui isn’t pitiful, and he’d forgotten that. He’d gotten so very overconfident, and he’d paid the foolish, shameful price. Still…

 

“100 percent, Sadaharu?” His finger taps against Inui’s temple. “That you just want to talk to me? I think your data is flawed.”

 

"Maybe it's another deliberate ruse, Renji," Inui archly replies, and he leans in closer, tilting his head just enough to let Yanagi's fingers skim through his hair. "Then again, I did say I'd _mostly_ want a chance to talk, which allows for a certain…margin of error." 

 

He probably should have predicted it from the amount of low, intense growling that kept coming from Rikkai's second year, but Inui didn't _exactly_ expect him to lunge around Yanagi and deliver a punch right into his face. The blow is more than enough to send him staggering back, and when his glasses fly off courtesy of it, there's a swift _crunch_ to follow when Kirihara's heel (more predictably) grinds down into them, snapping them in half. 

 

" _Don't_ touch Yanagi-senpai again," Kirihara snaps, grabbing Yanagi by the back of his jersey to pull him away from the door and back into the house. "Let's _go_." 

 

It would probably be in bad form to add _Whee_ as he’s whisked back, though Yanagi does feel rather lightheaded from the way he’s sort of vertical, then horizontal again. He’ll buy Inui a new pair of glasses later, not that he can’t afford his own, and right now he rather feels it’s more important to be with Kirihara. 

 

He turns to look at the younger boy, about to say something about how his concept of advanced math is increasing if he was able to pick up on their flirting, but stops. Kirihara looks _furious_. “Akaya, that was rather violent of you.”

 

" _Good_."

 

It's probably _also_ violent to slam the door shut and shove Yanagi back against it, but he's not exactly feeling the need to be _nice_. Not when Yanagi was reaching out to actually touch Inui, and Inui was leaning in so close to him, and it was creepy and gross and _\--_ Kirihara growls, drawing himself up to his full height, his hands digging into Yanagi's arms. "The same thing happened at the Kantou. What _is it_ with him?! I hate it when you touch people like that, and you let other people touch you like that. It's just supposed to be me!" 

 

If he were patient, he'd let Yanagi have a second to actually explain himself--but he's not. He's never been, and that's why he just grabs the front of his jersey and yanks him down, crushing their lips together on his next ragged, unsteady breath. 

 

 _Whee_ again. 

 

Yanagi finds that he rather likes this part of Kirihara--unusual, since he’s mostly focused on training that red-faced anger out of the boy, but this...this could be rather nice.

 

He likes being forcefully kissed, apparently, and no one else ever really has. With that in mind, he doesn’t struggle, but bends willingly to the assault on his mouth, sliding a little bit in Kirihara’s arms. “Noted,” he tries to say, but Kirihara is unrelenting, and Yanagi doesn’t exactly hate that.

 

It's better when Yanagi doesn't argue with him about it. _Still_ , though, he's mad, and he has every right to be. He's pretty sure Yanagi would smack him if he tried to flirt with girls (he never does), so--

 

Another growl, and Kirihara shoves himself closer. Yanagi's mouth is warm and pliant against his own, and that makes his breath catch, any insecurities flipping their way out the window when he lightly bites at Yanagi's lower lip before drawing back. "You're _my_ boyfriend," he mutters, petulant as much as he is annoyed, and he yanks on the zipper of Yanagi's jersey, undoing it enough to shove his face into the other boy's neck and _bite_. He loves the way that Yanagi is always a little cool to the touch, and here, especially, his skin is perfect and soft and smooth before he messes it up like this. 

 

It’s probably a little silly how much Yanagi is enjoying this. He yields eagerly, baring his neck in a graceful lean, hands coming up to fist in Kirihara’s shirt for at least a grab at stability. Someday he won’t need to, but right now he’s not _entirely_ sure that Kirihara won’t get distracted and drop him. 

 

“I’m definitely your boyfriend,” he agrees, and a soft gasp comes from his lips when Kirihara bites. He shivers down to his toes, pupils dilating, fingers curling. “You can take what you want, Akaya.”

 

That just makes him want to bite again. 

 

Kirihara's hands aren't exactly gentle when they grab and fumble at Yanagi's waist, digging into lean sides and probably leaving bruises. It's not like he can really think, though, when he's got his mouth on Yanagi's skin and he's being told that it's _fine_ , that he can do whatever, and his next bite is longer, drawn out with a suck that makes him rut forward, grinding thoughtlessly against Yanagi's hip. The realization of how hard he is is actually sort of secondary, and it hits him like a truck, bringing the breath to rush out of his lungs and a groan to catch in his throat. "Yanagi-senpai," he mutters, mouthing a wet, mindless kiss to the bruise that he knows is forming just over Yanagi's pulse. "Want you in the bedroom." 

 

Yanagi is actually a little lightheaded, and he nods quickly, chest moving rapidly as he unfastens himself from Kirihara’s chest (lightheaded from being crushed against a boy’s chest, how _atypical_ of him) just to grab his hand, tugging him quickly towards his bedroom. 

 

In the past, he’s very much enjoyed making Kirihara wait patiently while he stripped off his clothing, always folding it precisely and enjoying very much the sensation of eyes on him as he did. It’s rather like telling a dog to _stay_ with a treat two feet in front of him, letting him know how well he’ll be rewarded for his obedience.

 

There’s no time for that today, and Yanagi’s not sure Kirihara would even listen, or that Yanagi would even want him to. His clothes hit the ground in sloppy piles one after the other, and soon he’s moving trembling fingers to the fastening of the other boy’s clothes as well. “Do you remember what you need to do?” he asks breathlessly, almost yanking down the elastic waistband of Kirihara’s tennis shorts along with his briefs. “Or do you need me to walk you through it again?”

 

Kirihara nods rapidly, and he lurches forward, really unable to keep his hands off of Yanagi's waist and hips and everything else that's right in front of him, really. "I've got this, I paid attention," he insists, though it's really hard to think about that when he just wants to be just as naked as Yanagi and shoving him down and rubbing against him. That happens just a few moments later with Yanagi's back hitting the futon and Kirihara on him in seconds, his mouth hot against the other boy's neck, his fingers dragging down lean sides as he wriggles up between Yanagi's thighs. 

 

He always expects this to be _weird_ , somehow. It never is, not even when he feels Yanagi's cock just as hard as his own against his belly, and Kirihara muffles a groan into his neck, leaving as many bites as he can, just to make _sure_ anyone that looks will know not to touch. 

 

Yanagi doesn’t really expect himself to be as excited as he is, no matter how many times they do this.

 

It’s probably strange to most people, but he’s far more accustomed to getting excited when he’s massaging someone’s feet, when he has someone tied and bound and eager, or when he’s standing over someone on their knees, cutting them down to the bone with a few sharp words.

 

He’s not used to being excited about _this_.

 

Akaya is fire, burning red above him, hot and messy and clumsy and so charming Yanagi can’t help but accommodate him. He drapes himself back on the bed, long legs coming up to wrap around Kirihara’s waist, pulling him close to feel him hard, dripping, _aching_ between them, thick and heavy and very much a man no matter how coltish his legs still are. 

 

His neck burns, and he presses into that touch, fingers coming up to rake through slippery hair, nails dragging along his scalp as his head tilts back. “You’re going to make a spectacle of me,” he murmurs, far from complaining.

 

"Good," Kirihara rasps, biting down again, sucking harder when he feels the rake of Yanagi's nails. It makes him arch his back, grind down harder, the aching throb of his cock making it almost impossible to think. He's gotten _good_ about being able to think when they do this. He's gotten patient, and careful, but none of that seems to apply right now.

 

It just makes him harder to know that Yanagi seems to like it just as much. 

 

"Where's--never mind, I've got it, I remember," Kirihara mumbles, forcing himself to pull away, just long enough to grab and paw at a nearby side table's drawer. His mind might be cloudy, but he doesn't fumble too much with the bottle of lube, even when his fingers are slick in the next moment. Right, this part he _has_ to be careful about, no matter how he just wants to put his cock in already. 

 

He's probably weird for liking the way that Yanagi shivers and twitches at the first touch of his fingers--weirder still, for liking the way it _feels_ to wriggle that first finger inside, everything slick and hot and tight around it. It twists hot, eager knots in his belly, and Kirihara lurches up, mouthing a wet kiss to Yanagi's throat, his other hand curling around Yanagi's hip. "Like that, right?" he breathes, thinking back, remembering the way that Yanagi likes being fingered, and twists his wrist just enough to wriggle a second finger in. His cock leaks where it rubs against the inside of one pale thigh, god, it's hard not to just put it _in_ already.

 

“J-just like that.” 

 

Yanagi’s voice comes out choked and breathy, in something trembling and uncertain--not how he usually sounds, or how he likes to sound with Kirihara, but there appears to be no way around it just now, which he supposes is fine. 

 

He wants to praise more, to tell him, _You remembered, you’re doing very well, that way you’re curving your fingers is an appropriate angle for pleasure,_ but he can’t even focus for that much. 

 

Then again, he supposes that the point of most training _is_ to get to the point where the trainee doesn’t need it. Just now, Yanagi has no trouble in thinking that Kirihara is past the point where he needs guidance, especially when those fingers curl inside him, making him slick, making him _writhe_. 

 

He takes stock of himself, tries to remember whether the hard thick length of Kirihara’s cock will fit, and his mind shorts out a bit when he thinks about that too hard. “It’s enough,” he gasps out, long-fingered hands reaching to wrap around the slick length of the other boy’s cock. “You can get in now, I’m…” _Dying for it._

 

Yanagi's fingers wrap around his cock, and that makes Kirihara's mind short out for a moment. He bites his lip hard, shudders as his back bows, and _fuck_ , it takes effort not to just rut forward into that smooth, _pretty_ hand. It's even worse when he looks down and can actually _see_ how eager Yanagi is, too, with that normally composed face flushed and a little lost. 

 

It'd be pretty easy just to come right then and there.

 

It's also a challenge not to just keep fingering him, not when Kirihara can feel how Yanagi twitches around him and wriggles like he loves it. Somehow, he summons the strength of mind to pull his hand away, but that's _easy_ compared to everything else. "Do you…" He has to swallow hard just to try and ask it, even when he's already fumbling for the bottle of lube again. "I wanna do it without a condom." Normally, he'd _never_ ask that, but--"I want you to really feel it," he heatedly continues, lurching up to press a hard kiss to Yanagi's mouth, his breath hotter and more eager the more he thinks about it. "Want you to remember it. Let me, please, _please_ \--"

 

The noise Yanagi lets out is more akin to a whimper than anything else.

 

He’s at least flexible--that’s a point in his favor, when he can reach down and grab his own legs, bringing them up over his head spread wide, inviting, and a little bit desperate. 

 

“Go ahead,” he murmurs, even though he knows it’s a stupid, bad idea, and can name at least five strains of bacteria they could be transmitting, not to mention the anal tearing, the possibility of—

 

_Fuck it._

 

His eyes are glazed when they open, staring up at Kirihara’s eager face enough to do him in. “Make me remember it. Mark me up as yours.” 

 

 _Whee_.

 

He hadn't expected Yanagi to _agree_ , let alone be _into it_. Shit, _shit_ it takes effort not to just come all over his own hand when he grabs his cock, and Kirihara bites at the inside of his own cheek, squeezes at the base of his cock to bring back some semblance of coherency to his mind. 

 

Easier said than done, when his boyfriend's spread out and wanting in front of him. 

 

He lurches forward, steadies himself with a hand dragging up the back of a pale thigh, his other hand guiding his cock to rub against Yanagi's slick hole. It's a lot different without a condom, kind of mind-numbingly good to feel the drag of skin against skin like that, and the first _press_ is hotter and slicker than he'd imagined, making his mouth fall open and his fingers grab too-tight at any part of Yanagi's body that he can reach. 

 

It always takes a _bit_ of effort to get in. Yanagi's taller than him, but he's so _lean_ , and Kirihara is pretty sure that his cock is too much to be entirely comfortable. His breath catches in his chest when just the head pops in. He just has to grab Yanagi's ass in his hands after that, dragging him forward as he sinks in, _trying_ not to go too fast, but--"God," Kirihara pants out, lurching up, pressing a kiss to the inside of one knee, hands bruisingly tight when he finally gives in and just pulls Yanagi down the last few inches onto his cock. "Yanagi-senpai, you're _perfect."_

 

Yanagi can’t quite get his eyes to uncross, which he hopes Kirihara takes as a compliment and not that he’s pulling some sort of funny face. Kirihara grabs him, pulls him around, and with every single motion, he feels a little more like he’s simply going to die in the best way possible.

 

He wriggles down as best as he can at first, only to have his breath stolen at the first rough press of Kirihara inside of him, making the breath seize in his lungs. His own cock goes soft, flagging at the sudden _stretch_ of Kirihara inside him, of his ass working to accommodate that thick length, and he’s sure that the little urgent grunting noises he’s letting out are hardly graceful, but he can’t quite stop.

 

He wouldn’t _dream_ of asking Kirihara to stop.

 

He can feel his insides cramping, let alone his thighs; his own hips are narrow, and Kirihara is muscled and solid between them, forcing them wide. It’s sinfully hot and slick without the condom, something he’s rarely experienced and never from this end of things, and he can’t help but _whine_. His nails rake through Kirihara’s hair as he yanks the younger boy closer, down on top of him. “You’re taking such good care of me, Akaya,” he pants, one hand dropping down to claw at the futon, leaving little holes in the cover.

 

For a moment, Kirihara is pretty sure he can't breathe. He just pants out what's left of the air in his lungs, lets Yanagi yank him down, his own hands cupping and grabbing at Yanagi's ass to pull him _up_ and into the mindless grind of his hips that he just can't _stop_ when he's in so deep that it makes his _own_ body ache. 

 

"F-fuck--Yanagi-senpai, you're just--" It's slick enough that it makes his eyes roll back when he draws back, and when he tries to look down and see where they're connected--

 

That first, mindless rush of an orgasm takes him by surprise, leaves him gasping and with his hips shoving in harder still. His hands are pawing at Yanagi's hips, pulling him down, wanting those soft, lean thighs wrapped around him when he comes, and he's so, _so_ glad that he never really goes soft the first time he comes. It's more of a twitchy, trembling jolt than anything--usually. This time, it's more intense, and Kirihara is still shivering when he lurches up to press a messy kiss underneath Yanagi's chin. "Nothing feels better than you--I'm gonna take such good care of you--"

 

This is what Seiichi and Genichirou don’t understand. If anyone is at anyone’s mercy, Yanagi rather doubts Kirihara is coming off the worse on this one.

 

The first time Kirihara comes inside of him, all he can do is _shudder_. He melts down to the futon, mindlessly canting his hips down, trying to take all there is of Kirihara and thoroughly convinced that it’s too much. He can feel the slick, hot spill of the other boy inside him, and it makes him writhe, his cock starting to return to full hardness after that initial first brutal stretch. 

 

Kirihara can be singleminded sometimes. Usually, Yanagi would grab his hand, shove it to his own cock, and remind him that he’s not the only boy that needs to get off here tonight.

 

Today, he just hangs on for the ride and goes wherever that thick, insistent cock inside him wants to go. “Akaya,” he breathes, and grabs at those shoulders, broader and more muscled than his, still slender compared to what they’ll one day be. “You’re so…” No, he’ll sound like an AV star, that’s shameful, but…

 

Kirihara hits him just right again, and Yanagi whimpers. “Too much,” he gets out, and grabs at the other boy, lest he try to pull out. “G-good.”

 

Normally, hearing that it's _too much_ would make him stop, hesitate, worry, no matter how being this hard still kind of makes his mind click off and focus on nothing but sex. Right now, though--he's pretty sure the thought of stopping never even occurred to him. 

 

Especially not with Yanagi grabbing at him like that. 

 

His mind is still fuzzy even when he leans back, just a bit, just enough to wrap his hands around Yanagi's waist and pull him _down_ when his hips shove up until their skin slaps together. Kirihara's mouth goes dry when he _hears_ how slick it all is, when he can feel the trickle of his own come leaking out whenever he pulls back even an inch. _That's_ what he wants. He wants Yanagi full of him, reminded whenever that idiot from Seigaku tries to flirt with him that _Kirihara_ is the one that just fucked him. 

 

"Dunno how you take all of it," he manages to rasp out, and right, _right_ , he's definitely going to make sure Yanagi gets off as much as he is like this. One hand paws up, palming over Yanagi's cock, right when his hips slap forward again, relentless. "But you look _so_ good when I'm in you, Yanagi-senpai."

 

Yanagi forgets math.

 

His eyes roll back into his head, and his legs tremble as they squeeze around Kirihara’s hips, giving up on pulling him in for more, just focused on how everything right now is _perfect_ , and if he can keep that going for a while, he’s going to get to a place he’s not sure he ever has before.

 

Inui can _fuck off_ , because he’s never made Yanagi feel like this. 

 

He would have said something about it, but there’s no way he can speak. There’s no way he can _breathe_ , not with Kirihara touching him like that, fucking him deep, slamming into him over and over again and saying the most oddly sweet, urgent things in his ear. 

 

“Can feel you,” he groans out, his back arching as he writhes, shoving himself down onto Kirihara’s cock over and over again, even as his hands fall back to the bed in utter surrender. “Ahh, feel you in--in my _throat_ —”

 

Kirihara is a lot bigger than Yanagi would have given him credit for, before they’d started meeting like this.

 

Kirihara's own voice breaks on a strangled, whimpering groan. 

 

He sags down, bracing his weight onto an elbow when all he can do is fuck up into that slick, tight heat. The way that Yanagi's hips move with him is obscene, that sticky-messy-slickness making it hard for him to even breathe, let alone think, and the feel of Yanagi's cock hard and dripping in his hand is nearly enough in and of itself. 

 

He'd _like_ to give Yanagi a few more compliments, about how he looks perfect and feels perfect and there's _nothing_ that feels like this and it's just really, really good. That's lost when all he can do is grab and pull at Yanagi and bury his face into the side of his neck as he ruts forward, panting helplessly, biting into the crook of his shoulder and marking him up even more. _Mine, mine, mine._

 

Yanagi is expecting fireworks of some kind, but they don’t come. Everything involving Kirihara takes him by surprise, and this is no exception.

 

He feels his body seize up, clenching down impossibly hard on Kirihara’s cock as it shoves deep inside him, and then sort of…

 

 _Falls_.

 

That tension all gets released in a slow-rushing wave, made all the larger for its lack of speed. The first shock washes over him, dragging a shudder of pleasure and a sticky flood from his cock, and it hasn’t abated by the time the second, and the third, and the fourth crest over him, leaving him feeling battered, elated, dizzy.

 

He’s not really sure he’ll ever stop coming. He’s very sure he doesn’t want to. It feels as if his head has become detached from his body, a slow, dislocated thing that doesn’t seem to matter when his body clenches, rolls, when all he can think of is wrapping his arms and legs around the too-hot too-sweaty body between them and holding him close, when that hand on his cock is so inaccurate and so _perfect_ , like the rest of the boy he’s falling for so hard.

 

“Keep going,” he slurs, beyond the point of comprehension. “Make me feel it next week.”

 

A nod is something that Kirihara thinks he manages, not that it matters. Yanagi isn't paying attention, and Kirihara isn't paying _that_ much attention to anything either, other than the way that Yanagi feels around his cock when he spasms and shivers and _trembles_ and all Kirihara can think about is _I did that, I'm the reason he came so hard_.

 

Yanagi is limp and boneless in his arms when Kirihara grabs and pulls at him, drags him up into his lap when he rocks back onto his knees, and fuck, it's easy just to let gravity do the work here, with his cock pressed so deep inside that he's pretty sure the way that feels is going to kill _him_. 

 

"You feel so, _so_ good, Yanagi-senpai." He's not even sure if it comes out right, considering he's mostly got his mouth on Yanagi's neck, mostly spending his time stroking down his back and grabbing his ass, needy and insistent especially when everything is so, _so_ slick. Every time he thrusts up like this, he can drag Yanagi down, and when he's so pliant, every thrust makes Kirihara's eyes roll into the back of his head. "Dunno--nnh--how much longer--" 

 

That jinxes it, really, but Kirihara doesn't care. The second time he comes inside, he's _sure_ that it's got to be too much, but he loves the way it feels when Yanagi is this slick and dripping around his cock. Every shudder makes his muscles twitch and shiver, makes him shove his hips into Yanagi harder one last time, and that's the last of his strength long gone, leaving him to flop forward with a groan, squishing Yanagi underneath his weight.

 

It’s for the best that Kirihara is so flopped out, crushing him down to the futon. That gives Yanagi at least some small semblance of a chance to get his breath back eventually, even though he’s fairly sure he’d like to stay in this floaty, dream-like state forever.

 

As soon as he comes down from the high, he’ll have to face the fact that he’s going to ache _everywhere_. Kirihara is terribly enthusiastic, and he’s going to be bitten, bruised, and raw for several days to come. 

 

That isn’t to say that he wouldn’t do it again in a heartbeat, of course.

 

One hand weakly flops up until it lands in seaweed-textured hair, stroking gently through. “That was...spectacular,” he breathes. “Akaya, you…”

 

_Have come a long way._

 

_Have learned more than I expected._

 

_Dicked me into next week._

 

“You’re good.”

 

" _You're_ good," Kirihara mumbles as he headbutts his face into Yanagi's shoulder. He's still feeling a little loopy himself, but hearing that Yanagi thinks he did a good job makes him start to come back down to earth (complete with a smug surge of pride). "Really good. Might wanna throw you against things more often. Can I?" It had pretty good results, after all. 

 

Yanagi is already (foolishly) nodding before he starts speaking, giving Kirihara the rules he always needs. “As long as I don’t specifically ask you not to, or we’re in public, or you know that I’ve been recently injured,” he decides. “And that you check the wall or other surface for structural integrity first, I don’t want to be thrown through a paper wall or over something that’s likely to topple. But apart from that…” 

 

 _Whee_.

 


	7. Rikkai, Yanagi & Kirihara, Sanada & Yukimura

The next morning, however, is considerably less _whee_. It takes him three tries to get out of bed, and even then he falls a little bit, not quite managing to catch himself on anything before he hits the futon on the way down.

 

_Ah. Miscalculation._

 

His legs aren’t just wobbly. It feels as though he’s pulled every single muscle in them, not to mention the way his entire frame feels rather battered, as if he’d taken a sailing trip. 

 

On a tsunami.

 

Strapped to the rigging.

 

He staggers to the bathroom, eyebrows raising in mild horror at the hickeys littering his neck. Oh, well, at least he has his jersey to wear, zipped all the way up to...ah, it appears they extend even _above_ that. This could be better.

 

Morning practice is clearly something thought up by the devil (Yukimura Seiichi) himself. Yanagi isn’t terribly optimistic about his fate as he limps slowly towards school, pausing to collect a probably-oversleeping Kirihara by ringing the doorbell.

 

"Just a moment!" 

 

There's the sound of general calamity before the door swings open, Kirihara Mika in the process of taming her own head of thick, curly hair back into a hair tie. "Good morning, Yanagi-kun!" she hums, trotting backwards away from the door. "Aka-chan still hasn't dragged himself out of bed, did you want to come inside and do it? He never listens to me like he does you, and I've got to get to work in about--ahhh, 10 minutes."

 

There is definitely something to be said about looking trustworthy. Yanagi nods, toeing off his shoes neatly next to the rest of the family shoes as he enters. “Thank you so much for the compliment, I’ll ensure that he doesn’t miss practice.”

 

That’s enough to make her squeal slightly, and he heads up the stairs, socked feet padding softly on hard wood before he reaches Kirihara’s door. Knocking won’t work, never does, so he simply enters, crossing to the raised bedframe (Kirihara and Jackal and Yukimura all, how _foreign_ ) and sitting—

 

No, not sitting. Sitting is no good, he finds.

 

He stands by the bedside instead, reaching out a hand to card through tousled hair. “Akaya, it’s morning. There’s tennis.”

 

Kirihara grumbles, stirring slightly. Mostly, it's to flop a _little_ closer to the side of the bed, dangling an arm and a leg off the side. All of his blankets are mostly a heap on the floor already, courtesy of his sister's attempts to wake him up to no avail. "Too early for tennis," he mumbles, flopping out a hand in Yanagi's direction. "No more Red Bull, Buchou. Stoooop."

 

Yanagi’s eyes narrow. The first, nicest attempt has failed. “Akaya, I’m having trouble sitting down, so this is going to be a quick process. Do you want Genichirou to punish you for being late? You know how he feels about punctuality.”

 

The mention of Sanada's name makes Kirihara jolt and sit up, no matter how his expression is still a little sluggish. "Huh? Right. Right, I'm up," he groans, scrubbing a hand over his face. He blinks sleepily over at Yanagi as he slings his legs over the side of the bed. "Why're you having trouble sitting down?"

 

Yanagi considers for a moment, then decides on honesty. “Because pleasure has a price. As much as I like being thrown into things, which is new to me as of yesterday, I am apparently less good about dealing with the aftermath. It’s unfair, as you would say.”

 

"…Oh." That's…hmm. Kirihara hesitates, suddenly much more awake, before he reaches out a hand to tentatively touch one of the bruises that he can see, very clearly, peeking out above the collar of Yanagi's jersey. "I'm _really_ sorry, Yanagi-senpai." Maybe he should get on the ground and bow or something? That might make his apology a little bit better. "If you want, I can make excuses for you at practice today so you can stay home? It's okay if Sanada-fukubuchou hits me, I don't care."

 

This reaction, of course, is why it’s all worth it.

 

Yanagi smiles, and gently bends to brush a kiss against Kirihara’s temple, nuzzling into his hair. “It’s fine. As they say, I’ve made my own bed and am lying in it. Come on, let’s not compound our obviousness by being late as well.”

 

No matter how much Kirihara’s finger brushing across one of those bruises makes him want to throw practice and bruises to the wind and do the whole thing again. Or perhaps not, if his inner thigh muscle is really as pulled as he thinks it is.

 

"Okay!" That's actually a relief, because he _really_ doesn't want to get hit--not this early in the morning, anyway. "We can work on precision or something--yeah, you can just stand at one part of the court and I'll try to hit all the balls right back to you so you don't have to really move--" Kirihara is very sure he has a great plan, and so he hurries to get dressed, not even bothering with trying to comb his hair out. It's not like it ever makes a difference, anyway. "Oh," Kirihara adds, swinging his tennis bag onto his shoulder. "Gimme your bag, too. If you're that, um, sore, it can't be fun to carry it, because it has books and stuff and mine doesn't." It's the _least_ he can do, considering this is…well, it's not _all_ his fault, because that guy was way too close to Yanagi, but _still_. 

 

Worth it a hundred times over.

 

Yanagi lets out a little sigh, somewhat more maidenly than he’d intended and not unhappy with the result. “What a gentleman you are today, Akaya. I’m going to need you to very gently throw me over something else later.” 

 

He leaves the room with that, gliding down the stairs (with a lot of help from holding the bannister to keep his legs from wobbling) and leading the way to practice. 

 

This part won’t be _any_ fun.

 

Kirihara _might_ still be a little flushed from that particular commentary by the time they make it to practice. At least they aren't late, though, and he can stuff his face into his locker for a moment to get his wits about him. At least, until everyone _else_ starts commenting on things.

 

"Ah, Yanagi-kun--are you all right? You're looking a bit pale this morning." 

 

Yagyuu, of all people. What a _traitor_ , Kirihara miserably thinks. It's enough commentary to immediately make Yukimura's keen gaze swivel in their direction, and shit, _shit_ he looks like he's on the warpath already, if not a little tired and flushed from the heat that's already permeating the courts. 

 

Maybe if he doesn't say _anything_ , this will just…go away.

 

Now that he’s here, Yanagi is fairly certain that he should have stayed at home. At least at home he wouldn’t already feel sore and chafed just from the walk over. His thighs are trembling, but as he’d learned earlier, sitting down is rather out of the question. 

 

“Just fine, Niou-kun,” he says calmly to Yagyuu, taking a stab in the dark. Yagyuu is usually too much of the Gentleman he claims to be to make mention of something like another man’s personal health in public.

 

“Akaya!” Sanada calls, and jerks his head. “Help these first-years with their footwork. Anyone who can keep up with Kirihara only runs five laps instead of ten!”

 

"Uh--yes, Sanada-fukubuchou! I'm on it!" Kirihara sends Yanagi a quick, apologetic glance before he darts off at full speed. 

 

"Yo, I'm over here, Yanagi," 'Niou' snidely points out from where he's perched on a bench. "You _sure_ you're okay?" 

 

"You can always practice me with if you're feeling just fine, Yanagi," Yukimura sweetly puts in, no matter how sharp his gaze still is. 

 

This is going to be no fun at all. Yanagi sighs, pulling out his racquet from the bag Kirihara was so chivalrously carrying, trying not to let his breath catch at the stretch. “There was a 91 percent chance you would say that, Seiichi.” And a 3 percent chance that he’ll get out of this without additional damage caused by Yukimura’s latent hostility towards his and Kirihara’s relationship.

 

Yukimura frowns, cocking his head to the side. "Did you get hit by a truck or something?" he dryly asks, shedding his jersey onto the bench as he climbs to his feet. Normally, he'd keep it on at least as a posture check during practice, but the heat is already too much first thing in the morning. Even more normally--he might be _concerned_ about Yanagi, but considering he lost sleep thinking about him and Kirihara last night…

 

"Nice neck, by the way," 'Niou' idly says as he hops to his feet, passing by Yanagi with a grin. Yukimura shudders from head to toe. 

 

“An unforeseen complication,” Yanagi says mildly, body already internally complaining as he walks onto the court. Kindly, he refrains from elaborating--and will continue to refrain, for Yukimura’s sake, as long as Yukimura refrains from saying anything hurtful or upsetting to Kirihara. “Perhaps it is my fated punishment from losing my match so shamefully. If so, I accept it, though chances of karma existing in the real world…” He sighs. It’s not easy to calculate karma. He’s tried.

 

Yukimura is pretty sure that he just doesn't want to hear anything else. 

 

"You can serve." _Or can you?_ Yukimura wryly asks himself, inwardly grimacing. Well, isn't _this_ a match-up. He doesn't honestly want to _know_ what happened to Yanagi, but he has to wonder how high-paced this match is going to be between the two of them. Ugh, his tennis kingdom for caffeine in large amounts. 

 

"Too slow! Didn't you hear Sanada-fukubuchou? 15 laps for anyone underneath the minimum time!" 

 

Sometimes, Yukimura remembers that Kirhara is such a _good_ child, but then he looks back to Yanagi and sort of wants to retch. 

 

_Chance that Yukimura is feeling under the weather from his surgery today: 75.39%._

 

Yanagi wavers before serving, holding the racquet in as uncertain a grip as he ever has. “Seiichi,” he says calmly, eyes flickering over the Captain’s body, “I’d like to see a doctor’s note saying that it’s all right for you to chase after balls. If you want to kick me off the team for that, that’s fine.”

 

Yukimura stares at him for a long moment from across the court. "Excuse me?" 

 

"Niou, watch this," 'Niou' hisses, jabbing 'Yagyuu' in the side with his elbow. 

 

It's a miracle his voice doesn't start to raise, but Yukimura's not into being shrill this morning. Not _yet._ " _I_ know fully well what I'm capable of, Yanagi, and I'm not sure _why_ you feel the need to make such a ridiculous request. Now _serve_ , and we'll see who chases what." 

 

‘Yagyuu’ lets out a low whistle, keeping straight-backed in his chair even as Niou slinks down low. 

 

Yanagi kisses his life blissfully goodbye. It was worth a shot, he supposes.

 

The first serve he sends is pathetic, by any standards. The only saving grace is that it’s robbed of its usual power and unpredictably wobbly, due far more to to his own weakness and, well, _wobbliness_ than it is to any calculation. The ball barely tips the net, and falls over woozily.

 

Yukimura doesn't bother. Rather, he just jabs a finger out to the track. "Laps. And you know what," he cheerfully says, "I'm going to run them with you. Seems like a great way to set proper times, doesn't it? Oh, and to assuage _any_ worry about whether or not I'm _capable_ of chasing after your balls." 

 

Yanagi sighs. Oh, well. Worth a shot. The chances that he’ll fall down while running the first lap at Yukimura’s pace are not encouraging, but he forces his muscles to move anyway…

 

...only to stumble and fall before he even makes it off of the court. “The chance of me completing these laps is 0.62 percent,” he says firmly against the ground without moving. “The .62 is the unlikely, yet possible chance that some stranger who is not afraid of you volunteers to carry me.”

 

“Is that the yips?” ‘Yagyuu’ asks uncertainly. “It’s not usually like that.”

 

"Don't think so," 'Niou' mutters, slouching down further. "Yukimura didn't even hit a ball."

 

"You're trash," Yukimura dully informs him, prodding Yanagi with his foot. "Where's your sense of pride? Is this some bizarre downward spiral that I need to be aware of?" 

 

“I abandoned pride in a dumpster when it was born,” Yanagi says lightly, half-smushed against the ground. “And you don’t need to be worried. I’ll be quite as spry as usual once I regain full function of my body.” 

 

His eyes flicker over to Kirihara running emphatic drills, trying to outdo all the younger boys, and he sighs. “Until a truck hits me again.”

 

"You're trash," Yukimura sighs out again, giving Yanagi one more prod with his foot before crouching down. "And you're really gross, and I'm pretty annoyed with you right now. If I help you back to the clubhouse, will you stop embarrassing me and also never come to practice like this again? If you say 'no', then I'm also never going shopping with you again, _plus_ I'm going to leave you here until you get up and run." 

 

Yanagi struggles slowly to his feet with a groan, looping a gangly arm around Yukimura’s thin shoulders. They’re too thin, but he capitulates anyway. “You like it when I take you shopping. No one else buys you socks. And yes, I promise at least that much.” 

 

It’s hardly like it was _planned_ , and he really doesn’t enjoy feeling this way half as much as he had enjoyed _getting_ this way.

 

"Sanada would buy me socks if he'd go shopping," Yukimura sniffs, sighing as he loops an arm around Yanagi's waist and _carefully_ hauls him to his feet. It's more about being careful on his own end than anything, really, because this is more weight than he's dragged in awhile…but it's fine. Strength training. That's what he's going to call this. "I'm starting to think," he adds in a low, grumpy deadpan, "that you and Akaya deserve one another." 

 

“I certainly hope so. We appear to be stuck with each other.” Yanagi could probably sound more concerned about that. 

 

He tries to walk, and eventually manages to get spindly legs under himself, managing to support his own weight. At least there isn’t too much of it, and after a minute, he straightens upright. “Your chances of being able to support my weight so soon after your surgery were under 14 percent,” he says, trying not to complain about how much his arm hurts in this position. He doesn’t even remember _using_ his arm, but it’s as worn out as the rest of him. “You’ve defied the odds considerably once again, Buchou.”

 

"You're more tall than you are heavy," Yukimura huffs, trying not to think about the stretching, twitching pain in his lower back, or the fact that his own legs wobble a little. He's got this. Hearing it from Yanagi _does_ make it a bit better, though…but, still not perfect, so: "Talk to me when I can carry Sanada around." 

 

Dragging Yanagi back to the clubhouse might not be the most pleasant of things, but he manages a fairly graceful job of it, even when Yanagi is essentially a limp noodle. "Your options include lying or sitting; pick your poison." He sways. "Quickly." 

 

Yanagi pitches forward, draping himself down over the locker room bench. Yes, lying on his stomach is probably the best thing in the world at the moment. “Mm, Genichirou only weighs a single kilogram more than I do. It used to be five, but he’s lost weight while you were in the hospital. Thank you for the help, by the way.”

 

He doesn't want to hear about how Sanada's stressed himself thin while he wasn't around. It sort of makes him feel sick to his stomach. Even still, Yukimura drops himself down onto the tail end of the bench, not afraid of languishing in the relative cool of the clubhouse when no one else is around. "It's fine. Just…" He sighs, bending forward slightly, wishing he could put his head between his knees without making his back hurt, but this will do in the meantime. "I'm sorry for being rude to you yesterday about Akaya, but I'm not sorry about being concerned. Maybe we should just agree to not talk about it? It looks like you're being…um, punished enough already."

 

“While I hardly see my current state as a punishment,” Yanagi says wearily, “I appreciate the sentiment, and the offer. There was always a significant chance that neither you nor Genichirou would approve. That was why I thought it prudent to keep our relationship quiet.” He pauses, then adds, “I would request that either of you speak to him, however. He’s certain that you hate him for this, as well as for losing his match in the Kantou.”

 

"I'm going to talk to him. About both things, of course; I just haven't had the time." His mother calls him Typhoon Seiichi, which is not the _least_ accurate of names that he could be given as of late. Yukimura wrinkles his nose all the same, and reaches a hand over to poke the top of Yanagi's head. "Your taste is awful, though. That guy from Seigaku, and now…I can't even say it. He's basically my _kid_ , it's so weird, Renji. _So_ weird." 

 

Yanagi shrugs. “I’ve never been the biggest enthusiast of activities that were considered normal, so perhaps I’m hardly the one to judge. I doubt it would be any comfort to you to think that every person who has been in a relationship has been someone’s child, but that fact is true. Also, the age difference between us is highly comparable to the difference between you and Genichirou. I do hope this isn’t _gross_ by your standards, but you recognize his abilities as a captain for next year. You must know that he’s not a child all the way through. Parts of his psychology are more mature than you give him credit for.” It’s very tactful, he thinks, that he doesn’t add that parts of Kirihara’s anatomy are equally mature.

 

"I _know_ he's not a child all the way through, but…" It's just the way Kirihara _says things_ sometimes ("When are you coming home from the hospital? Today? Tomorrow?") and the way that he throws himself into things without hesitation or any real thought (he's seen the tapes of the whole Kantou now, and Kirihara's firm declarations that he'll finish the match before his surgery sort of hurts)…honestly, it gives him a headache thinking about Kirihara doing that in any sort of a _relationship_. 

 

"I guess," Yukimura mutters eventually, "it's better if he's with you than anyone else that could take advantage of him without me immediately knowing. The _hickeys_ are gross, though. Hide your shame, Renji; you're worse than Niou now." 

 

“Those were a surprise,” Yanagi freely admits. “I’m afraid he was a little enraged last night. I’m sure you’ve noticed by now that he doesn’t exactly do things halfway.” 

 

That’s an understatement, of course. He sort of raises up on his forearms, and fixes Yukimura with a slitted-eye look. “I care about him just as much as you do, you know. That’s why you put him in my charge. Do you think I would hesitate an instant to sacrifice my own well-being for his?”

 

"It's not even that I think you're going to _hurt him_ ," Yukimura tries, trying not to make too much of a face when it comes to thinking about…nope, nope, can't do it, not going to do it. "It's that…oh, come on, you _have_ to get it somewhat. You're _so_ much smarter than him, Renji, and so much more mature."

 

It’s true, for what that’s worth. “I never denied it,” Yanagi says softly. “I just also believe that there is something to be gained from a relationship where both partners bring something unique to the table. There are things about him that I greatly admire, and doubtless the reverse is true. So it goes with our flaws. Surely you and Genichirou are the same. You’re far more intellectually flexible and curious than he is, and he could physically overpower you quite easily. Does that not also make for a power imbalance?” At least they’re having a real conversation now, and Yukimura is looking at him like a human instead of a particularly disgusting bug.

 

"It sounds a little disgusting when you put it like that," Yukimura crossly informs him, though there's no real ire in his tone. "With me and Gen, I mean. How did you make us sound gross while you and Akaya sound so _well-rounded?_ I'll kick you off the tennis team, I swear."

 

The corners of Yanagi’s eyes crinkle; a smile, to anyone who knows, like Yukimura certainly does by now. “I’m simply pointing out that there is no such thing as a true dynamic of equality. If there were, you’d simply be better off alone, since your partner would be nothing but a copy of you. You don’t need to quote me, I’m hardly a relationship theorist. I only mention all of this because my own choices and, I believe, morality were called into question on multiple occasions.”

 

"I _said_ I was sorry," Yukimura huffs, flopping backwards to lean against the wall. "It's a visceral reaction, _visceral._ If you two are happy, fine, but--ugh, you're just going to have to deal with me thinking it's a little odd. I always expected him to run off with some cute girl that I could scare into being very sweet to him. You aren't scared of things, you're a monster."

 

“One of three,” Yanagi agrees easily. “And someday, he’ll be worse than all of us.”

 

"God, I hope so. It would be good if his nickname was something really terrifying. I've thought about this in great length, but considering his aversion to horror movies, I'm not sure anything that I've come up with would sit well with him."

 

Yanagi hesitates, but hesitating is like bread and butter to Yukimura, and Yanagi knows he’ll sense it before too long. “He’s got a nickname. They came up with it during the Fudomine game. The Assassin.” He wonders idly if Yukimura will throw a fit about not being able to nickname the boy himself, the way mothers do when they can’t cut their child’s hair for the first time.

 

"Oh." Yukimura tilts his head back, contemplative. "That's pretty good. Classy, at least." It's a little sad, though, that he missed the moment of that name's conception. He sighs, his shoulders heaving in a shrug. "I'll just have to congratulate him on that, too, I suppose. It's a good name to lead the team with next year, if not a little…hmm. Ominous."

 

“My only issue with it is that I find it’s a bit close to that captain from Higa, the one that goes by Hit Man. Assassin is classier, of course, but I must wonder if something should be done about the similarity. Perhaps the matter will resolve itself once their captain goes to high school, of course.”

 

Yanagi turns his head, still flopping. “Incidentally, I do recommend that whenever you and Genichirou do come to a point in your relationship that you feel certain urges, you mediate them if you have tennis practice the next day. Or kill yourself prior, which would be kinder and more efficient.”

 

"We're going to have to instate a rule, Renji. It's called 'please don't talk about your sex life with Akaya in any regard, especially when you're already a walking billboard for it.'" 

 

“Given that this team includes Niou Masaharu, I rather think this is some kind of a double standard. Rebuttal?”

 

"You're an asshole. Can you at least not go too far into detail? He's the team baby for everyone else. I know mercy isn't a word in your vocabulary, but consider adding it."

 

“My dictionary is not so limited. Mercy, noun, plural _mercies_ , Old French in origin. Definition: something other people have in moments of weakness. I _have_ been discreet, Seiichi. I didn’t expect last night to happen. Would you rather I’d skipped practice?”

 

"No. Yes. Maybe. But yes, mostly, because you just _had_ to make that doctor's note jab. I'm still mad at you for that. I'll make _you_ get a doctor's note next time, you ass." Yukimura scowls. "You _are_ useless like this, though, so I'm just going to leave you to wallow." 

 

Yanagi shrugs. “It was my one and only chance to attempt to remain upright. If school had been in session today, I’d gladly have forfeited what bits of pride I do have for a chance to sit in the nurse’s office. For the record, however, I assume you’re exceeding your doctor’s orders in general.”

 

"You know nothing. Neither does Genichirou. I can carry you, it's not my fault that you exceed five kilograms." 

 

“What’s the point?” Yanagi doesn’t mean for it to come out so thoughtful, but he supposes that’s inevitable. “Why do you want to push yourself so hard you may injure yourself and undo all that difficult and painful rehabilitation? We proved that we can win without you, though of course we prefer to have you with us.”

 

"The way you phrase things is annoying sometimes," Yukimura sighs out, eyes lidded as he leans his elbows onto his knees. "If anything, I don't feel like I'm pushing myself hard enough. I'm hiding from the sun while I'm talking to you, after all. And while I'm sure that the team is strong enough to win without me…that doesn't mean I don't want to be a part of it. _I_ led the team to victory for the past two years. I swore I'd do it for three. Breaking that promise because of this seems pathetic." 

 

Yanagi closes his eyes. “What you don’t seem to understand,” he says quietly, serious for once, not that anyone else catches when he’s not being serious, “is that you _are_ leading the team. You were leading it from the hospital. You were leading it while you were in surgery, Seiichi. You’re our inspiration.” It would be cheesy to say to anyone else, but this is someone for whom loyalty is everything--and for whom that loyalty is deserved.

 

"It's not enough." Yukimura's smile is strained when he spares Yanagi a quick, sideways glance. "It means a lot to me to hear you say that, Renji, but…ahh, I'm selfish, you know? I've been sidelined so long, and I've been so sure that I'd--" His voice cracks, and he hates it. Weird, _weird_ because this never really happens around Sanada, because Sanada rarely _outright_ calls him out on everything, but Yanagi always does, and that throws him off, even if it's just a little bit at a time. "I was so sure I wouldn't be able to play again. I was sure of that for a long time. So even if we take everything at Nationals in straight sets, I want to know that if I'm listed in singles one that I can still win if I need to play."

 

Yanagi nods slowly. “You haven’t ever been the least demanding person with yourself. None of the regulars ever have, but you in particular.” He sits up slightly, fingers steepling. “And you saw the tapes. You know how good Seigaku is, and that we’ll probably be up against them again in the finals.” And as everyone knows, they might have Tezuka this time.

 

"I'm setting a good example, I think." Yukimura rakes a hand back through his hair tiredly. "Seigaku is well-rounded, and had their captain been there, would have probably performed even better. That's why I _have_ to be there this time." He hesitates, chews at his lower lip. "I'm not going to pay attention to you, but I want you to be honest, anyway." Yanagi always is, for better or for worse. "If I continue to train like I have been…what are my chances of winning if I end up against someone like Tezuka, or that kid--Echizen, wasn't it?" 

 

Yanagi’s frown is more concerned than angry, but he shakes his head. “Your percentages are always off, Seiichi. Your data has a habit of getting away from me. But if I had to estimate…”

 

He thinks hard, little gears whirring away in his mind. “Against Echizen before he played Sanada, your chances of winning at the Nationals would be 34.82 percent. Against Echizen now, who knows? He could have the yips, or be startled into aggressive training. Against Tezuka uninjured, your chances are 45.21 percent. Against Tezuka as he was after his match with Hyoutei’s Atobe, 97.09 percent. But...you’re an outlier, as I’ve said before.”

 

"If you need something, yell. I'll send a first year."

 

Yukimura remembers when Yanagi used to throw out numbers always in the 90s, and how he could actually _laugh_ at the idea of there being a 2.whatever percent chance of someone beating him. 

 

_34.82 percent._

 

The thought of paling so far in comparison to his former self makes Yukimura have goosebumps, with every nerve set anxiously on fire as he climbs to his feet. He doesn't have time to sit here and _talk_. "If you're feeling this bad tomorrow, too, don't come to practice. If you do anyway, I'm going to drag you around by a rope when I run."

 

He doesn't bother waiting for a response--it's far more important to be _out_ , to be doing something, and Yukimura lets the clubhouse door slam shut behind him when he trots back to the courts at a jog. 

 

_It's just muscle deterioration. That's it. It's not like the movements aren't there, or that they can't happen. It's just--_

 

_34.82 percent._

 

Damn, why can't they just rip those staples out of his back already? 

 

"Listen up, everyone!" 

 

Yes, good. One bright and clear call, and everyone lifts their heads. There's relief from that, at least, and Yukimura ignores the sheen of sweat already plastering his jersey to his skin. Yukimura stands up straighter still. It could all be worse. He could still be in the hospital. Now that he's out, he can do _anything_. "Originally, it was proposed that the ranking matches not be held, but I'm revising that. Please continue your training with the idea that you'll have the usual summer ranking to look forward to in a week and a half!" 

 

There isn't a first year brave enough to groan out complaints, but Yukimura can see--with satisfaction--the trepidation on their faces already. _Yes._ "That's all. Continue your hard work!" 

 

"Sweet," Kirihara breathes before immediately whirling on the first years again. "You heard the captain! If any of you want a chance, you'll need to work at least fifteen times as hard!"

 

"How sure is Sanada that Yukimura-buchou didn't get ahold of a Red Bull?" Jackal mutters, watching Yukimura stretch once before darting off briskly on a run.

 

Sanada runs laps later than anyone, but that’s nothing new. He waits until Yukimura is finished, which rarely happens before he’s finished with his own laps. As soon as it’s been several minutes since he’s heard balls hitting the fence, he slows, jogging inside to flop down onto one of the benches near Yukimura. He can see the sweat from here, the trembling muscles, and the paleness of his face. “You want to shower here, or at home?”

 

It’s not a question of whether or not Sanada will go to his house. Sanada’s family already knows that there’s no way he’ll be anywhere else. Whatever has possessed Yukimura to decide on the ranking matches, they’ll need to talk about it.

 

Yukimura briefly glances over to Sanada before yanking off his headband and shaking his sweaty bangs away from his face. "Home." It takes a bit of effort to walk over, flop down next to the other boy, and not simply put his head between his legs. Damn it, but it's _hot_ , and while he's normally pretty unaffected by that sort of thing… "Unless you want to wrap me in plastic wrap again. Staples out next week, thank god-- _or_ , you could rip them out for me right now. I'd probably move better."

 

“Only for a few minutes, until the pain sent you back to your knees,” Sanada reprimands as gently as he can. He looks around the court, frowning, then nods as he stands. “Your house isn’t far.” That’s his excuse for shouldering both tennis bags over one shoulder, and crouching slightly to give Yukimura a place on his back. If he says it aloud, Yukimura’s more likely to protest. This way, they can preserve his dignity.

 

"Sanada--" It's hard not to frown. It's harder still to refuse, even though he _wants to_ , with those damned numbers echoing in his head again. Yukimura hesitates a moment longer before heaving a sigh and flopping forward off of the bench and onto Sanada's back. If he's _cute_ about it, then maybe no one will even bat an eye. "You make a good chariot," he huffs, slinging his arms around Sanada's shoulders. "And you smell good when you're sweaty." 

 

“You’re as gross as ever,” Sanada mutters, hefting the lighter boy up onto his back. It’s not a long walk, but his legs are still burning from the exertion by the time they make it to Yukimura’s house. He doesn’t even ask permission first, just starts the bathwater as soon as they get inside. It’s been long enough, and he knows the routines well enough to test the temperature of the water to make it exactly how Yukimura needs it--not as hot as he likes it, but as hot as the medical ailments will allow. “It’ll be ready in three minutes,” he calls, stripping out of his practice clothes, down to his fundoshi.

 

"Uh huh." Yukimura _might_ be craning his neck to get a better look at Sanada. Whoops. If nothing else, it takes his mind off of everything else, especially when he still feels stupidly wobbly enough that undressing is a chore. Maybe, if he teases Sanada enough, there won't be any conversations about his executive decisions for the ranking matches. "You could turn around to let me look a bit more while we wait, that'd be a great view."

 

Sanada’s cheeks heat up, and he turns to the side, tossing his hat down on top of the rest of his clothes. “Idiot. You’ve seen me without any clothes plenty of times.” Not that he ever finds Yukimura less attractive than the last time, but the point is a valid one, maybe.

 

"It's the _aesthetic_. You make an art of wearing that fundoshi, you know," Yukimura compliments, tipping his head to the side. "Also, I just like looking at you." 

 

“It’s not an art if it’s sweaty and needs a wash,” Sanada mutters. “Then it’s just laundry.” He strips it off, shutting off the tap and trying not to let his face stay red. “Do you want me to put you in the bath?” There’s probably no tactful way to ask if he needs to be carried.

 

 _Really lewd laundry._  

 

Yukimura forgoes that particular tease in favor of hauling himself to his feet, briefly grabbing the wall to steady himself. At least Sanada isn't going to rush to his side whenever he does that, not like _everyone_ else. "I'm fine," he insists all the same, though his next grab is at Sanada's shoulder once he's got a foot in the water. "I do, however, think I will run less tomorrow." 

 

Sanada doesn’t grab, knowing how much Yukimura hates it. Instead, he just provides his arms for leverage, making himself available as a support, should Yukimura choose to lean on him. “You don’t need to push yourself so hard,” he says quietly, finally lowering himself into the bath. “There’s a future after Nationals, and you’ll want to be ready for it.”

 

Sagging back--no matter how he grimaces, the water decisively _stingy_ in some odd places--Yukimura just huffs, shutting his eyes. "I'm not pushing myself hard enough, you mean. That's why I changed my mind about the ranking tournament; it's a tradition we need to keep." 

 

“I definitely didn’t mean that,” Sanada mutters. He sinks down, water level rising as he manages to get most of his body under the waterline. “What is that supposed to prove? Your doctors said you weren’t supposed to do anything stressful for three weeks, and I know you aren’t going to slack off in the ranking tournament. If you hurt yourself and rip open your stitches, we won’t have you at Nationals.”

 

"Rikkai's captain has been veritably benched for eight months. _Longer,_ really." Yukimura slinks down a bit more, frowning as the water bumps up underneath his chin. "The team needs to see in the ranking tournament that I'm still capable of leading them. So you're right, I'm not going to slack off. I want to _play_ , Genichirou. I need to, if I'm going to get _better_." He hesitates, folding up one leg to plop his chin down onto. "I asked Renji about what he thought my chances were, you know."

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Sanada doesn’t want to hear a low number. He doesn’t want to hear that he has to punch Renji, because he’s been giving Yukimura statistics that he just doesn’t need to know. “We’re not even going to get to Singles 1. I’ve seen their play now, and everything they have to throw. We’ll crush them in the first three matches, and you can just be proud that you’ve led such a strong team that you didn’t even need to play.”

 

"I know that. I know my match probably won't ever come. I know that everyone else is at the top of their game. I know _you've_ kept them there while I was gone." Something in his chest tightens, and Yukimura swallows hard. "Is it really that bad of me to want to be just as ready as all of you, though? I want to play at 100 percent, not _34.82_."

 

Sanada’s fist clenches. “That number is bullshit,” he says frankly. “He’s always given you a number in the 90s, hasn’t he? And you’ve never lost. You’ve played more than a hundred games. He’s just _guessing_ , Seiichi. He’s not a machine, and if he were all that smart, he’d have won his own damn game.”

 

Yukimura just looks at him tiredly. "I watched the tapes; his match is just indicative of his continuously poor taste. Renji's accounting for the fact that I've been in a bed for eight months, and I don't think he's wrong. It's embarrassing to even practice my backhand in front of a ball machine; do you think _that's_ something in the 90s?"

 

“I think,” Sanada says quietly, reaching over to take Yukimura’s hand, “that anyone who underestimates you, even you, is in for a rude awakening. I’ve never been wrong by assuming that you’ll triumph.” _You have to. For all of us, but mostly for yourself._

 

"…Then let me play in the ranking matches like I normally would." Yukimura exhales a shaky breath, methodically lacing their fingers together to give Sanada's hand a slow squeeze. "There's no better test than playing against the best in Japan. I'm not," he adds, somewhat petulantly, "going to hurt myself." 

 

“You say _let me_ as if there’s any chance that I could or would stop you.” Sanada squeezes back, and lifts their hands, bowing his forehead to press it against Yukimura’s fingers. “I will follow you until the end. Nothing about that has ever changed.” _Even if I know you’re wrong._

 

"But I would _not_ put it past you to tie me to a bed if you thought it would do some good for me to stay there," Yukimura mumbles. He bites his lip before he tugs Sanada's hand back, bringing it up to brush a kiss over his knuckles. "I'm not joking when I say I don't know what I'd do without you."

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Maybe he’s saying that too often. Sanada doesn’t care. “You don’t have to think about it. You’ll never be without me, as long as you can tolerate me.” He hopes he isn’t being _too_ embarrassing, but Yukimura doesn’t seem to mind too much so far, which does Sanada’s heart a lot of good. “I _would_ tie you to a bed if I thought you’d tolerate it, though.”

 

"I wouldn't," Yukimura cheerfully confirms. "I would chew my way out, like some kind of awful animal. Mm, but can we get out and talk about better things?" He can only vegetate for so long, or he feels like he needs to start running laps. "Thoughts on letting Akaya pick a few line-ups for Nationals, for example. I feel like he could use the experience." 

 

“Wash your hair,” Sanada instructs, passing over the shampoo from his side of the tub. This would never work at his own home, with the deep but quite narrow tubs. At Yukimura’s, however, it’s far more economical than wasting the water by bathing separately.

 

Yeah, economical. That’s why Sanada likes sharing with him.

 

His hand drifts down, absently (consciously) caressing one smooth thigh. “I think he could use the experience. Even more than that, I don’t think there’s too much he can do that would put us at a disadvantage. Our lineup is never secret, anyway.”

 

Yukimura fidgets, but does as he's told--though he _definitely_ reaches down to give Sanada's hand a poke underneath the water. "Keep doing that, and face consequences," he 'warns', pushing a strand of lathered-up hair out of his face. "So long as he doesn't try to make me play doubles with him, I agree; there's not much he could do to mess anything up. It certainly will give him an ego boost…hmm. Well, whatever, for better or for worse, he's cute with that ego of his." 

 

Sanada snatches his hand back. “Sorry,” he mumbles. Yukimura is probably still sore all over, and he’d taken liberties? Disgraceful. He’s a disgrace. “Just make sure he knows that we’re winning because we’re the best ones on the court, not because of his lineup. It wouldn’t do to have him be too arrogant about next year.”

 

Of course he should have remembered that Sanada can't pick out a joke. "Get back here," Yukimura huffs, grabbing at Sanada's wrist and pulling his hand right back to his thigh. Yes, better. He wallows down into the water a bit more, tilting his head back to rinse out his hair. "He's going to be arrogant no matter what, but don't worry, I'll give him some advice beforehand. The right lineup is just one piece to the puzzle, after all." 

 

Before, it was easy, and a little daring. Now, Sanada feels uncomfortable about his hand’s placement. It feels too much like taking _advantage_ , with Yukimura right out of the hospital and _needing_ him besides. 

 

He clears his throat, trying to clear his head when he’s pretty sure he’s _staring_ at his own hand on Yukimura’s thigh. “He’s...he’s a good kid. He’ll help you lead us to victory, and carry on your legacy. That’s all anyone can expect from anyone.”

 

"Mmhm. Also, Genichirou--" 

x

Yukimura leans his head to the side, bumping his cheek against Sanada's shoulder. He's also not exactly subtle about letting his own fingers tiptoe up one of Sanada's thighs, thumbing over hard, lean muscle. "I would have been all over you the night I came home from my surgery if I had been able to stay awake, so you can stop looking like you think I'm going to snap in two because you're petting me a little. It's nice, you know? For things to feel _good_ again." 

 

Sanada swallows hard, and nods once. He doesn’t move his hand much, but he does relax a little, letting out a breath and nuzzling a little down into Yukimura’s hair. “Sorry. I didn’t want to...you know. I just want it to be right, between us. We have time now.” A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he confesses, “I was angry at you. For deciding only that day to do the surgery. I thought, if we’re separated forever, and we never get to...but of course, you knew better.”

 

"Don't apologize. I was just teasing you." Yukimura lids his eyes, letting his weight shift more comfortably into Sanada's side. His fingers slide down closer to Sanada's knee, gently squeezing. "You can still be angry at me for that, if you want--but I wasn't going to die. I had a list, and still do, and staying with you is one of the main bullet points." 

 

“You didn’t die. Why should I be angry about something that didn’t happen?” 

 

Sanada’s fingers splay, and the memory of that time, of standing alone as his team had hastened to Yukimura’s bedside, of the twisting, aching feeling in his gut is so strong he closes his eyes for a moment. “I think,” he says carefully, hearing the slight quaver in his own voice, “that if you hadn’t made it, I would have been a very good monk.”

 

"Gross," Yukimura protests, and lurches up, slinging his arm around Sanada's neck to promptly haul him down for a kiss--firm, insistent, and all the better to mask the sudden, nervous flutter of dread in his own stomach. "How do we keep coming back to this?" he quietly mutters, and he kisses Sanada again for good measure. "Do you know how much I missed you? I don't want to think about when we were apart, or how we could have been apart even more when you're right here."

 

_Because it dominated all of my thoughts for the better part of a year. Because I still wake up in a cold sweat every morning checking my messages to find out if they’ve called to tell me you died in the night. Because the thought of my life without you was enough to make me decide to take vows._

 

“I don’t know.” Sanada hesitates, his hands coming up to Yukimura’s waist. Somewhat shy, he mutters, “I thought it would be nice to have your back to my front, but in the bath that seems inappropriate.” _When we’re naked, that is._

 

Not giving Sanada an opportunity to actually protest the idea, Yukimura wriggles his way over, settling himself contently between the other man's thighs. He settles back, leaning his head back against the other boy's shoulder with a pleased sigh. Sanada is _awfully_ comfortable. "You said it yourself--we've seen each other naked plenty of times, and sat like this even more. If you're just holding me, there's nothing inappropriate about it." Niou would tell him that he's resigned himself to being a virgin forever. Oh well, a comfortable Sanada-pillow is a fair trade.

 

“Sorry,” Sanada murmurs, and hooks his chin over Yukimura’s shoulder, letting his arms come to slide around Yukimura’s waist, holding him close. Whether there’s something inappropriate about it or not, he can’t deny that he loves the feel of Yukimura like this against him, leaning, cuddling. He’d thought it would be different now from when they were younger...but it isn’t, not really. He’d been stupidly in love with Yukimura then, too. “Do you remember what we used to talk about?” he asks, voice soft in the other boy’s ear. “About what our house was going to be like?” They couldn’t have been more than six when they started designing it. There’d never been a question that they’d be living in it together.

 

"Mmm. I want to draw it again later. First thing I'll put in my sketchbook after coming home." Yukimura's eyes lid as he snuggles back, Sanada's warmth negating the fact that the water is starting to cool. Every bed might make his back ache lately, but Sanada is at least a dozen times more comfortable and _relaxing_. "Do you still want it to be on a mountain?" he quietly asks, absently trailing his fingers over the back of one of Sanada's hands. "If I'm busy playing tournaments, having somewhere quiet like that to come back to would be nice." He'd protested that when they were younger, wanting an apartment in every huge city…but Yukimura is fairly certain he's turning into an old man like Sanada, and mountains sound very good.

 

“We can have the house on the mountain, and an apartment in London or wherever.” When he was younger, the idea of Yukimura having a place in a city without him had only sounded like one thing: Yukimura leaving him alone. Now, he’s starting to think he’s not quite the homebody he’d previously suspected of himself. “If I close my eyes and try, I can still walk through it, just like we planned.” His hand splays out on Yukimura’s abdomen, gently stroking, feeling the play of muscles under that smooth skin, even after so long of atrophy. “The living room, your art room, my salle….what was on the other side of the kitchen, again?”

 

Ahh, that feels nice. Yukimura gives in and shuts his eyes completely, his face turning to bury into the side of Sanada's neck. Breathing in deep reminds him a dozen times over of all things clean and masculine and _Sanada_ , and the last little bit of tension wriggling its way around in his body filters away. "We kept changing it…there definitely was a dedicated room just for all of your swords at one point. Oh, and our bedroom was going to be beautiful. I still fully intend to paint on every square inch of wall--Heian yamato-e style, don't worry, nothing Renoir there."  

 

“I wasn’t worried.” Even Renoir would be fine as long as it’s Yukimura painting it. The water is still cooling, but it feels kind of nice after the heat of the day, and with Yukimura’s body cradled in his arms. At least he can keep him warm. “And you wanted central heating. Ah, I remember, we wanted to have a second story so we could look out at the koi pond and the shishi-odoshi while we were still in bed.” He hadn’t even fought about the Western-style bed. Yukimura’s is shockingly comfortable, and he can always do his meditation on the floor to make up for the indulgence unbefitting of an ascetic.

 

"Mmhmm--huge garden, too. Remember, I did all a lot of research about what grows best in mountain climates."  Yukimura sighs, nuzzling his face underneath Sanada's chin. "Sometimes…running away and just living on a mountain sounds a lot better than any other plans I have." 

 

Sanada considers for a moment letting Yukimura know exactly what he has planned for after Nationals, but discards that idea. It’ll be better as a surprise. He personally hates surprises, but Yukimura is different, and the thought of seeing his eyes light up in delight...that’s worth sitting on the information for a while. “I think about it every day,” he admits instead. “I remember we had a wall between the gardens and the tennis courts, so that none of the balls would crush the flowers.”

 

"We're going to need a very specific mountain," Yukimura says, mentally combing the layout over again. "Courts with any sort of slope are awful. Oh, and weren't we going to have a guest house, too? The whole team can stay there…Niou's not allowed to start fires, though, I'll make him leave. Actually, most of the time, I'll make them _all_ leave. Our mountain, no trespassing."  

 

“It needs gates. We didn’t think of that before. Grave oversight.” Sanada’s thinking of it now, big wrought-iron gates that not even Niou can climb. Scratch that, Niou can climb anything. _Electric_ gates, that’s the key. “Maybe a moat.”

 

"Ahh, I really need to draw all of this out, can you imagine the look on a contractor's face when we make him build such a masterpiece?"

 

“We’ll probably need a few different contractors. Most of them can’t handle a job this large. And special professionals to do the tennis courts, of course.” Sanada pauses, then adds, “And a small cabin away from all the rest. I’ll build that one myself.”

 

"All right, Japanese-symbol-of-virility-kun. Don't mind me while I watch and enjoy the sight of you being very manly." 

 

“You’re making it weird. You _always_ make it weird.”

 

"Are you going to build it while just wearing your fundoshi? Because you _could_."

 

Sanada sighs. “Probably. As long as we have that stream nearby.” He frowns, thinking. “We should start looking for a mountain soon. This isn’t going to be easy to find in Japan, you know.”

 

Yukimura tries to ignore various mental images that would have him drooling. Overactive imaginations are rarely helpful, damn it all. "We'll manage. Maybe we'll just need to buy Mount Fuji or something, clear out all the tourism." 

 

Sanada snorts. “If you want to go swimming in all that snow, be my guest. We should look farther South, that’s where the good mountain weather is.” It’s probably disturbing how much thought he’s put into this.

 

"We're going to have central heating, it's fine either way! Also," Yukimura cheerfully adds, lifting a hand to run one finger up the side of Sanada's neck, "you with goosebumps because of the cold is _always_ cute." 

 

Sanada shivers at that, and reaches down to pull the plug before he starts to embarrass himself. Ah, even shifting like that means it’s too late, and he sighs out a breath, resting his forehead against the back of Yukimura’s head. “Sorry,” he mutters, though trying to shift his hips away at this point would just be more obvious, so he doesn’t. “Don’t think worse of me.”

 

"…Said as if I haven't been just as bad off since you started talking about building us a cabin," Yukimura wryly says, and he twists slightly, turning to press a kiss to Sanada's cheek. "You _don't_ have to apologize." _I'm just glad I can still turn you on when I'm pale and skinny and usually falling over._

 

Sanada nuzzles into the side of his face, giving Yukimura a gentle squeeze. “Just making sure that you don’t think I’m trying anything. It’s going to be right, between us, when it happens.” There’s no question that it will. There’s never really been a question, since they’d found out what sex _was_.

 

"Genichirou, I love you, but you _never_ just _try_ things," Yukimura teases, gently butting his head back against Sanada's. "All or nothing, I know how you are." 

 

Sanada nods slightly, relaxing as the water drains away. “At least you know that.” He stands, lifting Yukimura easily, and turns him around to give him a soft kiss. “And I love you, too.” Ah, that’s quite formal, but Yukimura never seems to mind.

 

The way Sanada _says that_ is always enough to make him melt a little. "At any point," Yukimura sighs, leaning his head forward to press a kiss to Sanada's shoulder, "you can stop being so perfect." _But don't. Please._ "I love you." 

 


	8. Yagyuu & Niou

It doesn’t take much to get Yagyuu involved in just about anything. Getting him involved in something like a weekly ritual is a lot easier. Niou doesn’t even have to blink lazily and invite him with double entendres--in fact, he doesn’t invite Yagyuu at all. It’s Thursday, and that means Yagyuu will show up. He hasn’t missed one. The first time had been spontaneous, but when Yagyuu had asked if it was weekly, Niou had confirmed. Yagyuu’s never missed one since.

 

Niou leaves the front door unlocked (usually), and waits in the bathroom, all of the bottles and tubes laid out. They’d never set a time, but the first time had been around 5pm, and at 5:01, he hears the door open, shut, and lock. “It’s not your stuff that’s gonna get stolen, Yaaagyuu,” he calls, legs splayed on either side of the closed toilet.

 

"Then don't leave the door unlocked," Yagyuu exasperatedly calls back, leaving his bag outside of the bathroom and stepping inside. He sighs at Niou, dangling a plastic bag in front of him. "I brought gloves. Last time, you didn't have them, and I was picking bleached skin off of my fingers for weeks. Never again, no matter how you say it builds character." 

 

“Builds callouses,” Niou corrects cheerfully. “It’ll make people think you’re the strong, hard-working type. I already mixed up the first thing, and cracked the window.” Once, they had forgotten to crack the window.

 

Just once.

 

“Did you have trouble getting out of dinner with your folks?”

 

"I told them I was helping you with your summer homework." It works, considering Niou's usual midnight calls asking casually about the material from class that day so he can ace the test on the next. Yagyuu rips open a package of gloves, and side-eyes Niou's hair with a frown. "You have more showing than usual. You haven't been testing growth supplements again, have you? I told you that's not safe."

 

“Nah, I was trying out a new theory about scalp massage. Guess it was real. Huh.” Niou closes his eyes and tilts his head back towards Yagyuu. “I got you a new brush. You always complain about the old one being kinda crusty.” Niou likes it like that, but for Yagyuu, he’ll make the exception. “Take off your clothes or they’ll get bleachy.” Yeah, that’s why.

 

Yagyuu frowns at him, pushing up his glasses. "I'm not taking them off. The last time you insisted on that, I ended up with bleach in some very odd places, and I am _not_ going to experience that again. It _burns_." He does, however, roll up his sleeves before pulling on his gloves and grabbing for the mixture of bleach and developer. It's actually a bit odd to see Niou's roots at all, but, well--it's also _nice_ to get to see them, because Niou certainly doesn't let anyone else get a glimpse at his natural hair color. Yagyuu gives the top of Niou's head an idle, absent scritch before he reaches for the brush and coating it in the mixture. "Always white…you should be more creative sometime, Niou-kun. Pink seems popular in Harajuku." 

 

“If I start dying it crazy colors,” Niou points out, “there’ll be no more question about whether or not this is my natural hair color. It’s important to keep them guessing. Besides, we can always be creative somewhere else. Gotta bleach that out today too, it’s been three weeks since the last time and it’s starting to grow in.” No one but Yagyuu gets to do this with him, for good reason.

 

An exasperated look is all Yagyuu gives him. "You can bleach that yourself. That part was weird last time." The first time he did any of this, he was sure there would be much more to it--and truthfully, it did seem like quite a lot. Now, however, there's something of an art when it comes to bleaching Niou's hair and coating every single black root that has decided to sneak in and attempt to ruin his deception. "Your eyelashes give it away, though, if people think to look at them," Yagyuu idly points out, starting with the roots at the top of Niou's head, and methodically flipping up his hair to get underneath it all. "I don't suggest dyeing those, though…" 

 

“Nah, people just think I wear mascara.” Niou flutters his eyelashes up at Yagyuu. “Sometimes I do, just to throw them off. They make white mascara too, you know? You think they’re long enough to look like falsies?”

 

Yagyuu peers down at him, flushes, nods, and returns to his task. "They're longer than most girls'," he mutters. "It's weird, Niou-kun. Tip your head forward and stop batting them at me, I need to get the back of your head."

 

Niou tips his head forward obediently. If Yagyuu’s hands didn’t feel so good in his hair, he might be tempted to grab him, or twist out of his reach or something. Then again, that’s _why_ he lets Yagyuu do this instead of anyone else. “You keep fighting it, but you’re gonna do my pubes. Otherwise you complain later that it’s uneven and you don’t like looking at it.”

 

Yagyuu twitches a bit. He _does_ remember the last time he refused, and it ended up being…very uneven. Having a fit of OCD in the middle of sex is never good. "Or maybe," he crossly replies, jabbing the brush lightly against Niou's scalp as he works, "you could leave them alone, and take a break from letting others see them for awhile. If it's just me, it doesn't matter." A pause, and Yagyuu realizes how awkwardly…clingy? Jealous? _whatever_ , he's not sure, but it's certainly embarrassing, especially when he didn't _really_ mean it like that-- "Just--because after that fiasco with that girl, it might be better to, well, _limit_ yourself for awhile, and--" The grave is getting deeper.

 

Niou opens his eyes, long-lashed blue staring up at Yagyuu’s bespectacled face. Quietly, he says, “If you want me to yourself for a while, just say so.” _Fussy bitch, I’d do it if you’d just say it._ “Or is that too _homo_ for you?” If he doesn’t drive Yagyuu away on purpose, just that tiny bit of distance, he might even say yes.

 

"You _don't_ have to phrase it like that." God, Yagyuu hates that word. It makes him nervous, and his gaze immediately flickers away, focusing perhaps too intently on his task. "I'm just trying to make sure that you don't get in trouble again--or, well, that you _don't_ get in trouble, period." 

 

“Sure, it’s fine. If I’m going to be good like that, you’re going to have to make it up to me.” Niou butts his head back against Yagyuu’s hands, feeling the gloved fingers slip through his hair. It’s intimate, somehow, in a way that even the sex they have doesn’t always accomplish. “You know I’m pretty insatiable.”

 

Ah. Hmm. Weird, how Niou even just nuzzling against his hand like that makes every nerve twitch in his body very pleasantly. At least he dropped the homo thing. "You're the worst, more like," Yagyuu murmurs, working in the last bit of bleach before sliding his hands away. "There. Let that sit." 

 

Niou stretches out, grunting a little at his muscles working out the kinks from sitting still for even that short amount of time. He’s usually twitching somewhat, but he doesn’t do it when Yagyuu’s touching him, for some reason. “Don’t see why it’s the worst to want to have a lot of sex. _You_ do. You’re just all shy and Japanese about it.”

 

"I'm not _shy_. Girls are shy," Yagyuu protests, shoving up his glasses again after peeling off his gloves and frowning down at Niou. "I'm just _practical_. Trying to do it in the student council room minutes before a meeting isn't a good way to start off the school year, for example." 

 

“Wasn’t an insult.” Niou kicks his feet a little, slouching back against the toilet tank. “Hey, what do you think about Yukimura? Not in that weird flowery way of yours, like...back from the hospital and everything.” Not that he’s worried. That would be dumb.

 

Yagyuu hesitates before dropping himself down to sit on the edge of the tub. Might as well sit; Niou's hair bleaching takes awhile to finish up, and he sort of likes watching it gradually change from black to yellow before it's properly toned to that silvery white. "Yukimura-kun seems to be adjusting well," he diplomatically answers. "But I honestly hope that I don't end up in his ranking bracquet." 

 

“Who cares if you do?” Niou asks practically. “He always rigs it so there’s only two regulars in any one bracquet. You’re not going to lose to anyone but another regular, so who cares who you wind up against? I hope it’s me. Might be nice to have the yips for once. Sounds peaceful.” _And I’ll know if he can still do it._

 

"…That's not the part I'm worried about," Yagyuu hesitantly tries. Ah, he doesn't like talking about this. It's just Niou, at least, and that makes it better, but with any other member of the team--especially Sanada or Yanagi, or Marui or…never mind, it's literally anyone else that gets _extremely_ defensive--it's no good. "Yukimura-kun should still be in physical therapy, not out there playing with us." He exhales heavily. "I know for a fact his doctors wouldn't have cleared anything like this. I don't want to be in his block because…well. Having a chance at winning against him…just feels wrong." There. He's said it.

 

Niou sighs out a breath, looking up at Yagyuu. “Don’t be a dumbass. You’re not going to beat him.” He lifts a leg, resting it on Yagyuu’s lap. “Me either. How hard can the yips be to fake for guys like us?”

 

Yagyuu's brow furrows. "Niou-kun," he warily begins, resting a hand atop his shin, "I don't think that's a very good idea. It might be easy to fake, but if something goes wrong and he finds out…"

 

“I just don’t wanna be the reason he thinks he can’t play in Nationals.” Niou nudges socked toes against Yagyuu’s belly. “I wish you’d known him longer before he went into the hospital. Shit, he was so fucking proud, but he was always _happy_ , you know? Like…” _Like there was nothing he couldn’t do._

 

"I knew _of_ him for awhile before I joined the team," Yagyuu quietly points out, and he idly slides his hand down, pulling at one of Niou's toes through his socks. "I just don't think faking that you've got the yips will make him feel any better. If you think we can do it and not be found out, that's fine, but…what if it's someone that isn't us? Maybe if you could rig the bracquets even more or something…" 

 

“He’ll beat anyone else. Did you see him at training today?” It’s hard not to sort of purr, but Niou likes it, way too much, when Yagyuu tugs on his toes like that. Weird, maybe, but Yagyuu’s a little weird, and it feels good. “I’m just saying, the yips is a smart way to get out of it. Sanada would murder us if we beat him, and Yukimura would do it himself if he caught someone faking, you know? Safest to just claim yips, it’s not like they can test it.”

 

Yagyuu pulls on another toe. It's more stress relief now than anything, oddly enough. "If you're sure," he hedges, now more than ever sure that he doesn't want to be in Yukimura's bracquet. It's just not going to end well, he can feel it in the pit of his stomach. "I just…hmm. Maybe we should just rig it so that it's Sanada-kun in the bracquet with him, and then _he_ can keep dealing with it." 

 

Niou grins. “Yagyuu Hiroshi, you’re positively delinquent if you think I’m going to rig the matches. I like it.” He leans forward, tiptoing his fingers up one of Yagyuu’s thighs. “If you’re worried about getting bleached, I _won’t_ give you a blowjob, but the offer’s on the table.”

 

Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it again, and briefly, pointedly looks away, shoving his glasses up. It's definitely a problem that he gets turned on being called _delinquent_ , isn't it? His parents raised him to be better than this. They're still quite certain he _is_ better than this, but… "I," he valiantly attempts to say without his voice being sort of breathy around the edges, "am not adverse to being bleached." 

 

He's really no better than Niou. It's probably best to resign himself to that fact at some point.

 

Niou grins, and doesn’t bother to hide it. His knees are on the floor in a few seconds, and he’s already pawing at the front of Yagyuu’s slacks, because Yagyuu is a good boy who changes out of his school uniform as soon as school is over. “Take your shirt off if you don’t want it ruined,” he advises, letting his fingers tease the other boy through the smooth fabric of his slacks first. “I mean, my head might go all the way down, and _then_ you’d get bleach spots.”

 

"Ah," Yagyuu manages in agreement, trying very hard not to think about Niou's head going _all the way down_ when his fingers should be fumbling _less_ with buttons and be a lot more capable with this sort of thing. "Right." 

 

He also makes a valiant attempt at not tipping backwards into the tub. He manages, barely, when he shrugs his shirt off, and gives into the urge to wrap a hand up into Niou's hair, no matter that the bleach is still in there and he can _feel_ the heat of it as it oxidizes against his own fingers. It's pretty weird to be turned on by that, isn't it? Yes. It definitely is. 

 

Yagyuu is stupidly cute when he’s really turned on. It’s a problem that Niou thinks that, because Yagyuu is turned on a _lot_ of the time. He finally lets his fingers pry open the fasteners, and open those perfect pleated pants, letting the thick stiffening cock out. It’s not quite hard yet, but Niou wraps his mouth around the head, faintly tasting soap, chlorine, and the odd tang of male skin that he finds so fucking intriguing. “Damn,” he mutters, wriggling the flat of his tongue down the underside of Yagyuu’s cock before pulling off. “What do I have to say to get you all the way there?”

 

Yagyuu's eyes flutter, and his next, huffing exhale of breath actually fogs up his glasses a little. "Not much," he admits, his fingers tightening a little in Niou's hair, _trying_ not to pull just yet, but it's hard when Niou's tongue is hot and wet against him and already driving him insane. "You could--ah--" He should be more embarrassed about this part. Probably. Yagyuu is, in a way, but it doesn't really _last_ , so does it even count? "Tell me how much you like it, when it's so big that you can barely even…" He trails off, because talking about it _himself_ actually makes it difficult to think, and his toes curl in his own socks before he slides a foot across the bathroom floor up to Niou's thigh, absently kneading. 

 

The obnoxious thing about blowing Yagyuu is that he loves having a mouth on his dick, but he also loves fucking dirty talk. That’s fine, but Niou does struggle a bit to make sure he’s paying equal attention. He bobs down a few times, about halfway, before pulling off for a minute, stroking firmly, slowly from base to tip with one hand, resting his mouth near the head. “It’s so thick my jaw hurts,” he says with a grunt, leaning into the press of Yagyuu’s foot. “Look what it did to me, Yaaaaaaagyuu. I’m all sticky.” He tilts his head up, eyes half-lidded, showing off the sticky-slick part of his lips and chin where he’s practically dripping precome.

 

"Shit," Yagyuu mutters, strangling a whimper into the back of his throat. Niou's _way_ too good at this, and it never really feels like he has a chance to catch up to _processing_ all of it when his dick's hard enough that it hurts and his mind feels like it's sort of swirling and--"Get your mouth back on it," he manages to rasp, even as he's unable to resist dragging his fingers through the sticky mess on Niou's chin. He can't help thumbing that full lower lip either, especially when it's already a little bruised, but eventually Yagyuu just has to shudder, dragging his hand way to curl it back up into Niou's hair and sliding his foot up higher, pressing it between Niou's legs. "Is it so big you can't fit it all in?" 

 

Niou’s eyes cross at that a bit, and he nods once, breathing, “Yeah. Can’t get all of your big dick in my mouth, shit—” before diving back down, letting himself be noisy, making sure he’s sloppy and loud as he sucks on the head and the shaft. His hips rut forward, his cock straining against his shorts, and the moan that comes out when the thick head of Yagyuu’s cock hits his throat isn’t feigned, and neither is the way he gags.

 

It's usually best not to try and figure out how this sort of situation happens, because it's too good to be true and Yagyuu's pretty sure if he keeps thinking about it, it's going to stop.

 

It's best to just go with it. 

 

Yagyuu wraps both of his hands up in Niou's hair, tugging him down harder with a breathy, needy grunt of effort. He can feel the resistance, the way that Niou struggles for just a second, but then there's the way his throat just spasms around him when Niou gags and damn it, there's really nothing better. "Looks like you're taking it well enough now," he groans, shifting his weight forward enough to grind his foot down against Niou's cock, his own twitching when he can feel how hard Niou is and how just as turned on he is. He rocks back, yanking Niou's head back as well just enough to hear him gasp for breath, to hear the slick _pop_ of his cock sliding free, and Yagyuu would be a horrible liar if he said he didn't love the way Niou looked with a cock rubbing against his face. "I could probably come like this, but you like it better when you can really taste it, don't you?" 

 

The tears that spring to Niou’s eyes are a reflex, something that happens every time he gags that hard. He knows his face is flushed and splotchy now, and he pants for breath, warm puffs of air along the head of Yagyuu’s cock. Yagyuu’s hands are strong, calloused as they yank him around, and that just makes his cock harder. His words are slurred when he talks, by virtue of the dick pressed up against his cheeks, distorting his speech and making him feel like a cheap whore as his cock throbs. “Need it in my mouth,” he groans, turning his head as much as he can, struggling slightly against those hands as he tries to get his mouth on the head. “Nn...I wanna come while I’m tasting your big fucking cock...shit, I won’t be able to swallow it all, there’s always too much.” _That ought to do it._

 

There's really no such thing as self-control when he's with Niou, and Yagyuu ought to know that by now. 

 

Except that Niou always knows how to push his buttons and throw him off guard and _make_ him like this and that's just not fair. He probably could be kinder about stuffing his cock back into Niou's mouth, no matter how he _knows_ , judging by the way Niou's cock throbs against his foot, that Niou likes it when he's that rough. He could also be kinder about yanking his head down, but the way it feels when his cock slides down over that slick, hot tongue is sinful and makes Yagyuu groan and buck his hips forward, bumping against the back of Niou's throat. 

 

And that _really_ does it, because Niou gags and drools and Yagyuu was already on a hair-trigger that he didn't even know he had. "There," he gasps out, his fingers tight in Niou's hair, holding him firmly in place when he comes, spilling hot and slick with every pulse that just makes his eyes roll into the back of his head. "You better--ah, fuck--swallow it all, or I'll just make you lick it off the floor--"

 

Well, that’s just no kind of fair.

 

Niou gags hard when the first shot hits the back of his throat, and no matter how hard he tries to swallow it, some of Yagyuu’s come dribbles down his chin, leaking out around the thick cock stuffed in his mouth. It’s hard to care when he’s lurching forward, coming in hot wet spurts against the firm pressure of Yagyuu’s foot. 

 

The taste of him is thick and strong, and Niou knows he’s a sick fuck for liking the way it’s slimy and weird in his mouth. There are some guys who taste slightly sweet and feel watery, but Yagyuu’s not one of them, and Niou always gets off on that for some reason. 

 

He grinds up one more time, then lets Yagyuu’s softening cock slip from between his lips, looking up with a challenging, satisfied look in his eyes. “You gonna make me lick it up?” he breathes, voice hoarse as he holds Yagyuu’s eyes, daring him to refuse.

 

Yagyuu exhales a strangled groan before just giving into the urge to shove Niou's head down to the floor. "Just do it," he breathes, his cock giving a weak, desperate twitch because ah, damn it, it's impossible not to find this hot even when it was just something he said in the heat of the moment and Niou doesn't _really_ have to do it. "Like a good boy." 

 

_Welp, I’m hard again._

 

Yagyuu isn’t usually _this_ domineering, and Niou’s thighs tremble at the force of it. He tilts his head to the side, making sure Yagyuu can see it when his long tongue snakes out, dragging over the floor to lick up the mess he’d spilled. It takes a few licks before he swallows, straightening up and letting Yagyuu see the glazed look of pleasure on his face. “It’s hard to be a good boy when I’m thinking about how good your big dick is going to feel in me.” He doesn’t say, _Your come is gross and that gets me off_ , not this time, but he kind of _wants_ to.

 

"…Wash out your hair first," Yagyuu somehow manages to say, because of course, the only sliver of clarity that's still in his mind is the fact he _doesn't_ want Niou's hair to fall out courtesy of prolonged bleaching. If it did, what would he have to throw him around with? No, wait, better plan--"We could fuck in the shower." The longer he's around Niou, the more likely he is to pick up his horrible language and speech patterns. It's fine now, awkward when he goes home later. 

 

(He doesn't go home later. It's fine.)


	9. The Captain's Drawing, Atobe & Ryouma

Of course, Hyoutei is there first. 

 

Tezuka is actually rather glad. There's much less of a chance of Atobe making an entrance and greeting _him_ outright. This way, it's just Atobe sitting and attempting to look stylish while his legs are very obviously cramping up. 

 

"Do you _have_ to go back to Kyushu after this?" Oishi frets underneath his breath. "The team really does miss you, and…"

 

 _And after seeing all these other captains here, you don't feel confident leading_. Tezuka doesn't say it, but he doesn't need to. A glance at Oishi makes it clear as day, and Tezuka bites back a sigh. 

 

Oishi continues to fret: "My family _can_ get you the same medical care here, you know."

 

Tezuka _almost_ says yes. Almost. "Another week recovering on my own will be good, I think. It's nothing against you." 

 

_Don't make eye contact with Atobe. Don't do it._

 

A sigh from Oishi denotes a subject change more clearly than anything as they take their seats. "Why is Hyoutei even here, anyway?" he quietly asks. "I didn't think they qualified."

 

"They didn't," Tezuka deadpans. "Atobe bought the stadium."

 

" _What?_ " 

 

“Of course, it would be a disgrace if the true kings didn’t get the opportunity to play in the Nationals, ahn?”

 

Atobe had entered, as always, with both an entourage and a cheer. There’s not much to be done about it, of course. Now that he’s sitting and waiting, he can at least look good doing so. He casts a look around the room, and favors Tezuka with a small nod--an acknowledgement, but no more. It wouldn’t do to let him be flustered when he’s being so tall and _captainy_. “It was so rude of you to get here before us, Shitenhouji-kun.”

 

“Shiraishi,” a blond young man corrects, not unkindly. He smiles to see Tezuka, but pales at who shows up in the door behind him. 

 

Sanada flanks his Captain, walking behind and to the right in the spot he’s earned. He’d considered just coming himself, but Yukimura had wanted to make a _statement_ , and Sanada does like the way eyes widen when they stalk in. Undefeated reigning kings, the drawing is just a preliminary to their victory.

 

Tezuka exhales an aggravated noise, pointedly glancing away. Oishi, subsequently, struggles not to hide behind him.

 

"Hello, everyone!" 

 

It should be a crime for someone like Yukimura Seiichi to be so _cheerful_. 

 

But it's a thing anyway, and Yukimura beams in Atobe's direction first. "Oh, Atobe-kun--you're actually here! It would have been something of a shame for you not to make Nationals, I suppose."

 

“It would indeed have been a shame. Fortunately, the stars have aligned to make certain the best teams have gathered.”

 

“You’re awfully arrogant for someone who had to buy his way into the tournament,” Sanada scoffs. 

 

Atobe’s smile never falters. If anything, it widens. “Ah, Rikkai’s Number Two. Yukimura, I’m glad to see you back on your feet. I do hope you’ve been saving your strength. I want you to be at full power when I defeat you.”

 

Yukimura's smile is still just as bright. "That certainly sounds like a match. It would be good if you didn't lose before you even got to play against us; you know, if the Kantou was any indication of your line-up this year…"

 

"So you _are_ convalescent, then," Tezuka dryly puts in. Oishi starts sweating.

 

Shiraishi nods, somewhat nervously, at Sanada and Yukimura. “Yukimura-kun, I look forward to having a good match if we’re fortunate enough to meet this year. Shitenhouji will show a great deal of spirit.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll all be laughing at you,” Atobe agrees generously.

 

Yukimura artfully chooses to ignore Tezuka. Any reaction, and Sanada will probably (most definitely) punch him. "I can only hope we'll actually get to see you play this time, Shiraishi-kun! Maybe we should agree to see one another in Singles 3…" 

 

The door flies open again, producing one sweat-soaked, rumple-haired Kite Eishirou, complete with glasses askew and teeth gritted in a slow, hissing seethe. 

 

"Ah," Yukimura says, blinking. "Okinawa's finest has arrived." 

 

There’s a somewhat instinctive reaction to step in front of Yukimura, but Sanada refrains...somehow. He probably shouldn’t try and defend him from Kite, not when Kite hasn’t done anything _yet_ , nickname (and past behavior) or no.

 

“Ah!” A small shaved head bounces into view, eyes wide above a red uniform. “No one said there’d be a pretty girl here!”

 

There’s a collective intake of breath. Even Atobe says nothing, staring between Rokakku’s captain and Yukimura.

 

Yukimura keeps the instinctive urge to strangle Aoi down to a slight twitch of an eye. "Ah, well," he brightly says, "the leggings _were_ a choice." 

 

"Yukimura-kun," Kite says, raking a hand back through his hair as he steps further into the room. A piece of seaweed sort of drags in behind him. "It's very good to know you'll be at Nationals this year. Between you and Tezuka--"

 

Tezuka turns away, walks away, and sits down, his back to the group. 

 

"--it will _certainly_ be an interesting road to victory--"

 

Yukimura glances aside. "I wonder about that…"

 

"And if not this year," Kite continues, "then _next year_ , Okinawa's finest will emerge--"

 

"I wasn't aware Higa's underclassmen were anything to speak of…" Yukimura muses.

 

"They aren't," Tezuka idly tosses back. 

 

Not to be deterred, Aoi edges closer, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out over his forehead as he tries to look ever so manly. “I didn’t see Rikkai’s cute manager before,” he tries, oblivious to the terror on everyone else’s face. 

 

Sanada looks around, startled. “Manager? What manager?” He’s fairly certain that he’d know if Rikkai had found a manager.

 

Atobe can only hope that his insight pose manages to muffle his laughter, or at least reduce it to a manageable level. Crassness has no place in a Captain, but it _is_ difficult to keep a straight face.

 

Yukimura's head tilts to the side with the slightest little twitch, though his smile doesn't falter. "If by manager, you mean 'club president'…" 

 

"Is no one going to say anything?" Oishi worriedly whispers. Tezuka looks away, though he does flick a crumpled piece of trash in Atobe's direction, letting it bounce off of the hand that apparently wants to eat his face.

 

"Aoi-kun--you would do well to research your potential opponents more thoroughly," Kite gravely says, pushing his glasses up. There's sort of a collective nervous laugh to follow.

 

Yukimura graciously offers Aoi a bow of his head. "Even I wasn't a captain in my first year, Aoi-kun." 

 

The collective sucking in of breath becomes a collective exhalation of relief as all the blood drains from Aoi’s face. The smile turns fearfully nervous, and he bobs a bow several times in quick succession. “Ahh, I’m so sorry! Please forgive me, I just really want to see cute girls and I didn’t recognize you from Rikkai’s team!”

 

Atobe has himself under control--until he catches a glance of Sanada’s face, still entirely clueless. _Shit, shit, bursting out laughing is rude, why won’t someone do it first so I can merely join in?_

 

"The leggings _were_ a choice," Kite echoes underneath his breath. 

 

Yukimura just laughs, bowing in return. "It's fine! I've been absent and Sanada has been taking care of the team for me. I look forward to playing your team at the Nationals. Ahh, Sanada, doesn't he remind you a little bit of Akaya? But, you know, slightly less…"

 

"Homicidal," Tachibana deadpans, having slipped in amongst the 'cute girl' chaos.

 

"No, no, that's not the word. Mmnn, at least we all seem to have strong successors for next year." Yukimura beams. "Although Rikkai's will be the strongest." 

 

"Wrong," Tezuka idly chimes in. Oishi strangles a long-suffering sigh.

 

Yukimura's head tips disinterestedly. "Eh? But Sanada _did_ beat your rookie…"

 

Shiraishi coughs discreetly, stepping forward with a smile and the air of a man about to make a fantastic announcement. “I hate to inform you all, but the rookie of the century did not compete in the Kantou tournament. Our rookie is undefeated, by anyone, student or adult.”

 

Sanada snorts. “I stopped being impressed with prodigy rookies.”

 

“Nonsense, next year’s games will be decided not by one rookie,” Atobe interrupts, “no matter if he’s as strong and hard-working as Tezuka’s. Next year’s winner, as this year, will come from the strongest _team_. Of course, the winner will be—”

 

“Rikkai,” Sanada interrupts.

 

“Rokakku!”

 

“Shitenhouji.”

 

“No, Hyoutei! Na, Kaba--where is Kabaji?”

 

"If not this year, then the next! Higa will cease to be the Dark Horse and will be the reigning champions--"

 

"That's enough, too much of a speech," Yukimura cheerfully chimes in. 

 

"Fudoumine is the real Dark Horse."

 

"Seigaku," Tezuka gravely puts in, "will be the new reigning kings."

 

Yukimura wanders away to take a seat with the best view.

 

It’s unclear how long the chairman has been attempting to cough discreetly in the doorway, but from the looks of things, it hasn’t been a short amount of time when he finally gets everyone’s attention. “First draw, Hyoutei!”

 

“As befitting the _true_ number one,” Atobe says confidently, giving himself a long moment to stand up dramatically. At least that way it’s harder to tell that his leg has fallen asleep. “You may all compete to see who will be the unlucky team to be first knocked out of the tournament by my glorious self’s team.”

 

"BYE," the chairman announces of the draw. 

 

"Now who's the one with too much of a speech?" Kite hisses underneath his breath. Yukimura pointedly looks up at the ceiling. 

 

"Next, Seigaku!"

 

Tezuka doesn't look at Atobe upon passing him to the front of the room. If he does, there's a pretty good chance he's going to want to trip him.

 

"BYE!"

 

A shame in a way, that. There's the simple fact that Rikkai is still the elephant in the room, and having their name still in that damned hat is not exactly the most pleasant of things to realize. 

 

“Next, Rokakku!”

 

“Rikkai Dai Fuzoku!”

 

Aoi’s already pale face goes ashen, and he throws in a few more bows and muttered apologies for good measure. “I’m looking forward to an exciting game against the reigning kings! I’ll make sure my team is in top shape to make it a good game!”

 

“Doubtful,” Sanada says, more matter-of-fact than anything.

 

Yukimura reaches over to pat Sanada's arm. "Shhhh." Less _seaweed_. That's the word he was looking for. Like Akaya, but significantly less _seaweed._

 

The rest of the drawings are uneventful after that, with most (all) of the other captains relieved at the lack of Rikkai Dai Fuzoku being in the pool of choices. That being said--

 

"Look, Atobe-kun," Yukimura hums as the bracquets are further assigned. "It seems there's a chance we'll meet up in the quarterfinals. You know, assuming you don't lose to BYE Gakuen." 

 

Atobe’s smile is as frosty as befits an Emperor of Ice. “As long as you don’t lose to the first-year captain. I assume that as their manager, you’ll be cheering Rikkai on?”

 

“Next, Shitenhouji!”

 

“Ah, Higa-chu!”

 

“A showdown in the South,” Shiraishi muses, giving Kite a slight nod. “I look forward to it.”

 

Kite pushes his glasses up. "It will be an interesting match for sure, Shiraishi-kun."

 

Yukimura's smile is sickly-sweet. "Considering I don't need to playin order for us to win, that would be a good assumption, Atobe-kun."

 

"How do you _ever_ come to these things alone?" Oishi whispers to Tezuka, wide-eyed. 

 

Tezuka just heaves a long-suffering sigh. It's a good question, and one that he doesn't really ever fancy answering. 

 

~

 

It's the middle of the night, and Tokyo has more public tennis courts than Kanagawa. That's a fact, and it's a real struggle that Yukimura has dealt with for a good portion of his short life. 

 

There's also the simple and basic fact that Tokyo swims with shrines amidst the city streets. If he needed more of an excuse, then he has one with that alone, but tennis is good enough. Tennis always a good enough excuse, even when doctors refuse to rip his staples out yet and that leaves his back sore and twinging with every swing. _Staples can't come out yet. Not enough healing. Take it easy, Yukimura-kun, you have to let yourself heal._

 

Ahh, what is it going to take to get everyone to understand there's not enough _time_ for that?

 

Yukimura's blood thrums on the court, and the magatama bounces against his chest underneath his shirt when he chases after a ball that the wall returns. An opponent would be better, but at least walls don't get yips. He's into that part, really, and he's already dripping in sweat from the humid heat of summer, no matter if it's dark except for the street lights.

 

"That wall's not giving you a lot of competition," a kid says out of nowhere, downing the rest of his grape soda and tossing it in the trash. Whenever he showed up, Yukimura doesn't know (or care). He's little, and his dark hair is mostly in his eyes that are still gleaming. "Wanna go?"

 

It's not like he can turn down a match--ever--except from that one guy in Okinawa. So Yukimura smiles, turning around to toss him a ball. "Sure." Maybe this one is like his sister, and doesn't get the yips.

 

Wishful thinking, and all that. 

 

~

 

The guy doesn't look _that_ good.

 

Ryouma likes to think that he's got an edge on knowing the difference between tennis players that are good and bad. This one looks like he _could_ be good. There's a streamlined grace to his movements, a flow from shoulder to elbow to hand, but he lacks the necessary bend to his back to put power behind his serve, and the squareness to his shoulders slumps from time to time, speaking of tension and stiffness. 

 

So he can't be _that_ good. 

 

Still, there's not really anyone else around this late, except for a bunch of doubles players that are asshats. Ryouma's not interested. He wants to play singles, and this guy, for all the leanness and delicacy to his frame, hits a ball like he means it. 

 

"Wanna go?"

 

Ryouma gets a smile for his trouble. "Sure."

 

All he can really hope for is _something_ of a match. Atobe put him up to this, anyway.

 

~

 

At least when Ryouma wakes up, it's _cool_.

 

Also, it's really comfortable. His own bed isn't this comfortable, even though he's complained a dozen times and his dad finally got him a new mattress. This is a step above, and even though he feels a dozen times less overheated than earlier, he can't help but bury his way down into the sheets, sighing into a very squishy, comfortable pillow. 

 

Wait.

 

Ryouma sits up, blinking dizzily as he contemplates his surroundings further. Big, squishy bed. Very European. Way too elaborate to the point of tacky--

 

There's little to do but groan. He feels like he's been hit by a truck, and aches from head to toe, and so Ryouma just stuffs his face down into a pillow once more. He doesn't remember _much_ of his evening. Tennis. There was supposed to be tennis. Atobe had dragged him out, telling him to play with his right hand only. Yeah. It should have been easy. The first guys were easy, but….

 

But then there was that other guy. 

 

_Did I win?_

 

He definitely played a match. He doesn't remember the outcome, but he's pretty sure he'd like to.

 

“Awake already, are we?” 

 

Atobe has a cup of tea in one hand, expertly brewed, because Ryouma at least knows that Japan is not the be-all, end-all when it comes to tea variety. That, among other things, is something they’ve bonded over. 

 

The boy looks so _small_ , curled up in his enormous bed, shaken and pale from his run-in with Rikkai’s captain. He sits on the side of the bed, setting the tea onto the nightstand. “When I told you to go out and play with your right hand, I didn’t mean _to the death_ , Ryouma.”

 

Ryouma lifts his head just enough to send Atobe a rather dark glare from over the edge of his pillow. "Wasn't to the death," he points out petulantly, huddling a bit more into the sheets. This bed _is_ comfortable, though. "I'm not dead." _Did I win, you obviously know if I won or not because I'm here._

 

“You looked quite dead, when I showed up,” Atobe says pointedly. “I made you tea and everything.” His old nanny would be so proud. Ah, Kunimitsu had said to tell the boy who he’d been playing, but...Atobe can’t quite decide. Knowing it was _Yukimura, Rikkai’s Captain_ , might make Ryouma even more panicky when it comes to Nationals, and that’s the last thing the boy needs. Best to let it be, for the time being. Tezuka is hardly Ryouma’s guardian, not with the way he keeps fucking off to Kyuushuu and Germany. “Just tell me you didn’t switch to your left hand.”

 

"I _didn't_." Ryouma eyeballs the steaming cup of tea for a moment longer before slowly snaking out a hand to grab it. "And I wasn't dead. I was…" He hesitates, thinking of how to describe it, but honestly, his memory is still a little fuzzy. "Did I win?"

 

“You will next time,” Atobe says, and in that moment, he’s entirely convinced it’s true. “At least, I think you lost. That’s what your opponent said, before he left. What a rude person, to leave you unconscious on the tennis court. If I hadn’t seen that you were well, I’d have called the police.” He’d called the commissioner’s grandson, anyway.

 

Ryouma's hand shakes a little before he can stop it, and he frowns at the teacup again, letting the steam billow over his face before he slowly sets it back down without taking a sip. He _couldn't_ have lost. He doesn't lose. 

 

_Except to Sanada._

 

Just that one time, though.

 

_To Tezuka-buchou._

 

Right, well…that's to be _expected_ , isn't it?

 

_Fuji-sempai had been winning that one match, and then there's his father--_

 

"…Every shot." It's back in startlingly clarity now, and Ryouma half-curls up around a pillow, hugging it to his chest. "Every shot I hit--he always returned it. He didn't look _that_ good, is my right hand that bad?" The question comes out far more desperate than he wants, and he hates it. _Doubt_ isn't something that he's very acquainted with, at least not with tennis. 

 

For a moment, Atobe thinks it might be better to tell him exactly who he’d been playing--but wouldn’t that be worse, in the long run? Wouldn’t that make him even more terrified of the Nationals matches, and Yukimura Seiichi? Hell, if Yukimura is already back to that much of his old fighting shape after a week out of the hospital, Atobe’s faintly trembling himself at the idea of it. 

 

Best not to sacrifice his momentary comfort for his eventual win. 

 

“You’re expecting too much of yourself,” he says instead, sinking down onto the bed, propping up his head on one hand. “Remember, you’re supposed to be building endurance and the element of surprise. You probably had the misfortune to run into some off-duty tennis pro. Who else would be wandering around Tokyo with a racquet at that time of night, hmm?” He reaches over, giving Ryouma’s hair a gentle tug. “You took a point off of me with your right hand, remember?”

 

Ryouma sinks into the mattress again with a huff. "He looked younger than you," he quietly complains, pouting in the direction of Atobe's hand, but not exactly pulling away from it. "And you're _easy_ to get points off of, once I figure out patterns and stuff because you're an idiot. This was _different_." 

 

Atobe flicks Ryouma’s head, but not too hard. “Watch it, little prince. Maybe he just has a good skin care routine.” _That I should totally ask him about, because he’s_ not _that much younger than me._ “You were a tennis pro. Is it so hard to believe there could be another around the same age? Anyway, that match is over now. Why is it so frightening to have your balls returned?”

 

Tempted as he is to try and bite Atobe's hand, Ryouma resists, and slowly wriggles closer to the edge of the bed again and to that tea cup. He should try and drink it, at any rate. It doesn't smell like green tea, which is a plus. "It's the _way_ he did it," he mutters, wrapping both hands around the cup and kind of hugging it to his chest. "Like he's already there and thinking about how to hit it back before it even hits _my_ racquet. Dunno, didn't like it. It made my head fuzzy after awhile--like it didn't matter where I hit it, he'd get to it." 

 

That would be the infamous yips he’s heard so much about, doubtless. “That sounds obnoxious,” Atobe says frankly, and because Ryouma looks like he could use a cuddle, wraps an arm around him. He’s _chilled_ , which is lucky, because Atobe is usually excessively warm. “This is why I’m teaching you not to rely on those tricky, flashy shots. You’ll always find someone who can return them. The only true way to _always_ win is by learning to outlast anyone until you can find their weaknesses.”

 

Atobe is a furnace. This is good, very good, and Ryouma huddles back against him, sipping slowly at his tea. "Wasn't even _doing_ a lot of flashy shots," he grumpily replies. "I tried those, but he just hit them back. Didn't like it." He hesitates, then tilts his head back, frowning up at Atobe. "I'm _trying_ to learn to play like that, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma quietly insists, "but can I really learn it fast enough before Nationals?"

 

“Of course.” There isn’t a moment of hesitation in Atobe’s voice. Even a moment could be deadly to Ryouma’s confidence, as shaken as the boy is from his usually-ubiquitous confidence. “If you want to doubt yourself, fine. I’ll be confident for you until you remember how excellent you are.” He leans down, and nuzzles Ryouma’s nose briefly with his own. “We _all_ still have lots more to work on, no?”

 

"You're gross," is the mutter that follows, and Ryouma wriggles away just long enough to put his tea cup down after another drink (long enough to make that annoying flush fade from his face somewhat). "I know I'm good. I just…mmph." He rolls, stuffs his face into Atobe's chest--because he's warm and solid and always kinda smells good. "Don't wanna lose again." _Don't want to let my captain down again, either._  

 

“Then don’t. It sounds simple because it is.” Atobe shrugs, and lets his arms curl around Ryouma, gently petting his hair. “You can’t control how good your future opponents will be. You just have to make sure that you’ve done everything you can possibly do, and you won’t have to be worried about facing them. And that’s enough advice from me for the day, before you start getting sick of it.”

 

"Yeah, you're already dumb." Ryouma burrows, grabbing at Atobe's back to wriggle up even closer to him. "Just don't like losing to some random guy on the street," he crossly says, and sets his teeth to Atobe's shoulder to vent some of his frustration. Gnawing is good, yes. "Play me later."

 

“Fine, fine,” Atobe says, and hisses slightly at the brush of Ryouma’s teeth. They’re oddly sharp, and his fingernails prick into Ryouma’s scalp in answer. “If you keep doing that, you’re going to drool on my shirt. Unless you want me to take it off first.” They _are_ in his bed, and he _did_ behave in a very gentlemanly fashion by carrying Ryouma home, after all.

 

Ryouma pauses, and his eyes flick upward, contemplative. "Maybe," he slowly says, and then: "Yeah." That sounds good, and like a pretty good way of taking his mind off of tennis--not something he usually wants, but right now, it's what he _needs_. 

 

Being a gentleman has its rewards, fortunately. 

 

Atobe moves slightly to take off his shirt, laying back onto soft pillows and arching a single eyebrow. So far, their few trysts have mainly been composed of Atobe grabbing Ryouma and taking what a Prince owes to a King, and he’s rather interested to see what Ryouma will do with his body, when given carte blanche. “As you wish.”

 

Ryouma crawls after him, climbing into his lap in short order and splaying his hands over Atobe's chest with a thoughtful frown. "Every other time's been on a tennis court," he idly notes. "Is this what happens when you kidnap me instead?" 

 

Atobe reaches up, cupping the boy’s face in one large hand for a quick kiss, then lets his hands drop to lace behind his head. “I’d have gone with ‘rescue’ over ‘kidnap,’ but I don’t mind being a dashing pirate. Do you want to be my distressed damsel, then? I’d thought you’d want a more active role for once, but perhaps you enjoy the passive…”

 

At that, Ryouma lurches forward to bite him again, getting a solid one in on the side of his neck. Thing is, he _knows_ how much being bitten there pisses Atobe off, and that's part of the fun. "Not distressed and not a damsel," he mutters as he reaches down to unabashedly grab at Atobe's cock through his pants. "Just gimme." 

 

Atobe starts to give the brat a swat for the bite (it’s _tacky_ , ugh), but forgets about his intentions when Ryouma grabs him like he’s the last sweet in the candy shop. He curses under his breath, and reaches down to unfasten his trousers, pulling out his cock and wrapping a hand around it, slowly coaxing himself to hardness. Ryouma’s never seen him less than fully erect before; he’s always been so hard and _ready_ before their little meetups that it’s been straining before they’d even touched. “If you want it,” he says, arching an eyebrow, “you should get it ready.” Serve him right to have to do some of the work instead of just being a pliant hole for a change, no matter how they both enjoy it the other way as well.

 

Ryouma hesitates, then sulks a little, even as he starts begrudgingly slinking off of Atobe's thighs. "Didn't _want_ to do it like that," he huffs. "But all right, I guess. We're in your bed, I thought it'd be different." 

 

“It _is_ different,” Atobe assures him. “You’re on top this time. With an ego like yours, I’d think you’d find that delightful.” For some reason, Ryouma’s whining barely bothers him. It’s rather cute, after all. “I didn’t say you had to use your mouth. I don’t mind your hands. Or your thighs.”

 

"But…" Ryouma's brow furrows, thinking even as he reaches out a hand rather thoughtlessly just to be able to _touch_ Atobe's cock, because he likes the way it feels in his grasp, heavy and hot. "I want it _in me_. Like how you and Tezuka-buchou do it." It's funny that his captain thinks they're _hiding_ it. "Or is that just something you do with him?" 

 

Atobe lets out a groan, and gets up onto his elbows, enjoying the sight of Ryouma’s agile fingers touching him gently. “I do it with whoever I want,” he murmurs, rubbing his hips up slightly against Ryouma’s hand. “But if I’m going to put it inside you, it has to be completely hard first, or it won’t go. Besides, you don’t want it like I give it to him. You’d be too sore later.” Whoops, he only realizes afterwards how much of a challenge that sounds like. Maybe Ryouma will let it go.

 

Ryouma's eyes narrow. "I could have it like that. I'd like it." His fingers squeeze, and it's kind of fascinating to _feel_ Atobe get hard in his hand like this, especially when he can feel every pulse and jump. It makes his own cock harder, and he shifts, straddling one of Atobe's legs. "Just want it in me," he repeats, voice hitching a little this time when his thumb slides up, rubbing over the tip. It's starting to get slick, and he _almost_ leans down to taste--but nope, not if he doesn't have to, don't wanna. 

 

Atobe’s gaze is calculating, or as calculating as he can be when his cock is this hard. After another speculative look, he nods slightly, reaching up to tug Ryouma’s shirt up over his head, tracing one fingertip down that slender neck, down his chest, down his belly, to pluck at the waistband of his shorts. “You should know,” he murmurs, and his voice comes out rough, “that he likes it when I hold him down and fuck him until he’s begging me to stop. We don’t have to go that far, if you don’t want. Have you put your fingers in before, or do you want me to do it for you?” Every sentence is as pointed as he can make it, goading, teasing, encouraging while still making himself twitch hard with every word and the images they conjure up of Ryouma stuffed full and whimpering.

 

It should be weird that the thought of all that kind of makes his mouth go dry. Ryouma struggles to think of a reply for a moment, so he just shakes his head, squirming forward to get even closer. "I haven't done that before--wanted someone else to do it," he mutters, flopping a little bit to hook his chin over Atobe's shoulder and then breathe in deep and shuddery. He _really_ likes the way he can feel Atobe twitch in his hand the more they talk about this. "You seemed like you'd be good at it, so…"

 

Atobe’s breath hitches, and he nods, a hand flung to the side, grabbing at the nightstand. “I can’t promise you’ll like it,” he warns. “Not everyone does. But if you’re going to like something in you, I promise you’ll like this.” 

 

He hadn’t _intended_ to be so grabby or so insistent, but this is making him so much harder than their usual trysts, where they’d never gone beyond rubbing against each other, beyond a hurried, urgent blowjob. This is different, and god, Ryouma’s so _tight_ when he slides a slick finger down the cleft of the boy’s ass, teasing around his hole before nudging a fraction of an inch inside, eyes locked on the boy’s face to see his reaction. “You’ve imagined me doing this?”

 

That really doesn't feel at _all_ like he'd imagined, and Ryouma squirms, abandoning Atobe's cock to grab at his shoulders and cling. He's not going to start complaining _yet_. It doesn't hurt, it's just weird, he's got this. "Y-yeah, because everything else felt good."

 

Atobe briefly misses the touch to his cock, but seeing Ryouma looking unsettled, uncomfortable...well, he’d be lying to say that he hates it, which is probably awful of him. “If you don’t like it, we can always do that again,” he promises, and slides in a finger, easy and slick after the first initial probe. Ryouma’s as tight as anyone he’s ever felt, but there’s little he can do to push against just that much, and it’s easy to get it all the way in, stroking gently in and out. “Imagine how it’ll feel when it’s my whole cock,” he breathes, blue eyes flicking up to meet Ryouma’s. “If you can even take it.”

 

The way Atobe says _that_ , at least, takes away how _weird_ it all feels. Ryouma's pulse jumps and he swallows hard, strangling a whine when his body involuntarily clenches around just that one finger and makes it feel much, _much_ bigger. "I…I can do it," he groans, sagging a little, only to whine and claw at Atobe's shoulders when that finger slides _out_ , even just slightly. "No, put it _back_ , it's better when it's just _in me_." 

 

“So _demanding_.” Atobe isn’t really complaining. He obliges Ryouma for a few moments, stroking and curling and twisting gently, but one finger isn’t going to do much for Ryouma except get him ready for more. Atobe pulls it out slightly, and pushes in a second, sighing a little at the stretch of it. It’s so _easy_ to imagine his cock going in there, stuffing that little hole full to bursting, especially from the noises Ryouma’s already making. “Too much yet? You know how much bigger my cock is.”

 

"Just put it _in_ already--" He's definitely whining now, because it's weird and only not-as-weird when both those fingers are shoved all the way in and even then it still just makes him all squirmy and uncomfortable but _almost_ good. Ryouma shoves his face into Atobe's neck, biting again, stifling another frustrated, aggravated whimper when his thighs tremble from the effort it takes not to wriggle _away_. He didn't sign up for _this_ part, it better not be like this _every time._

 

The brat _knows_ he doesn’t like marks left on his skin, but glories in doing it anyway. Ah, well, it’s a small price to pay for feeling the boy squirming around on his lap, wriggling on his fingers and begging for more, his pale face flushed, his thighs already tense and trembling. “You asked for this,” he warns, which isn’t exactly the way he likes to start fucking someone, but Ryouma sort of begs for it. 

 

His cock is slick, and Ryouma’s slick, and he doesn’t even give the boy a moment to tense up between pulling out his fingers and sliding the head in, going so swiftly that Ryouma won’t have a chance to feel empty-- _or_ to tense up when he feels that first, brutal stretch. “Still--ahh--want it all?” Atobe grunts, the first few inches of his cock buried inside the boy, eyes locked on Ryouma’s face, wanting to see the moment the boy truly stops being an innocent. It _might_ be something Atobe enjoys more than he should.

 

Ryouma is pretty sure he's going to die.

 

It's _way_ too much, too thick, too hard inside of him, and he just sort of moans helplessly, clinging to Atobe's shoulders, nails clawing into his back when his fingers curl, white-knuckled. 

 

But if it was all the way _in_ \--maybe--

 

A broken, desperate whine drags from his throat, and Ryouma bites again, needy, insistent, his back arched and muscles strung so tightly in his thighs that he can't wriggle down himself even if he willed it. "All of it," he manages to gasp out, tears pricking in the corners of his eyes, his breath unsteady. "A…Atobe-sempai, just _put it all in already_ \--"

 

Atobe can say a lot of things about Echizen Ryouma--but not that he doesn’t know what he wants.

 

Or that he’s not good at _getting_ it, Christ, Atobe can feel his pulse pounding in his very skin at that mock-innocent little honorific. His fingers tighten to bruising on Ryouma’s hips, and he nods briefly, frantically before giving up on niceness. He yanks the boy down _hard_ , jerking his hips up with the same motion, lurching up to give Ryouma’s mouth a bruising kiss, taking advantage of every part of him with one carnal movement. His voice is rough and husky when he breathes, “Still want to play games, boy?”

 

Ryouma feels everything just sort of…melt.

 

When Atobe is all the way inside of him--finally, _finally_ \--everything just sort of…relaxes. It's in, it's all the way in, there's nothing _else_ that he has to fit inside of his body like that, and Ryouma groans against Atobe's mouth, helplessly kissing him back, biting at his lower lip before he lets his head loll against Atobe's shoulder. His cock twitches and drips between them, and while he's pretty sure he's so, _so_ close to just coming already, that's really secondary to the way it feels to be stuffed full of Atobe's cock, hard and _thick_ and making him twitch and shiver even when he limply drapes himself against Atobe's chest. "Like that," he just sort of slurs, head-butting Atobe's shoulder. "All the time."

 

Well, that answers the question of whether Ryouma will enjoy bottoming or not. Atobe hadn’t been _too_ concerned, but there’s always a chance. _He_ hates it, after all. 

 

Now that Ryouma is (adorably) limp, Atobe has a chance to get his breath back. Every move from then on is easier, slow and good and at his own pace. “Shh,” he murmurs into Ryouma’s hair, wrapping strong arms around the boy. “Just relax. I’ll take care of you.” 

 

Ryouma honestly isn’t that much heavier than the weights he lifts three times a week, and it’s a hell of a lot more enjoyable to lift the boy gently, just to fuck up into him, than it is to do biceps curls in his private gym. Besides, hearing the noises Ryouma makes when he’s entirely inside, skin slapping gently against skin, makes this one of the best, lewdest things he’s ever done. “Just like that,” he murmurs. “Feel good inside? Too much?”

 

Probably, there are better responses than half-moans, half-whines, but there's not much to be done about that when it feels so _good_ when Atobe is entirely inside of him. It aches when he even pulls out a little, and Ryouma shudders, clinging to Atobe's shoulders as best as he can, _trying_ to wriggle back and take more, but… "J-just…perfect," he huffs out, his voice breaking on a little whimper. He's so full that he's pretty sure he can taste Atobe, pretty sure that he couldn't move off of his cock if he tried, and that's _nice_. "Atobe-sempaiii…" It's a breathy, needy moan against Atobe's ear, which Ryouma would probably bite if he could think that far ahead. "Next time, too--just f-fill me up like this, it's _good_ \--"

 

Atobe is pretty sure he’s won some kind of jackpot here. Wildly, he wonders whether this is some kind of reward for putting up with Ryouma’s practices, his moods, his attitude, his demands--but no. No, this is just lucky as hell.

 

Lucky is that this whining, whimpering, squirming boy is wiggling on his cock, breathing in his ear, moaning with every thrust of his cock deep inside that exquisite tight heat. “There’s a good boy,” Atobe whispers, not even sure when he’d switched to English. Whatever, Ryouma understands it just fine. “Just like that--that’s the face I like to see when you’re nice and full. Mm, just enjoy.” _He_ certainly is. His cock is harder than he can ever remember it being, jumping and swelling with every stroke inside the boy.

 

Ryouma has no idea what it is about Atobe purring in his ear _in English_ that makes him tense up and _squirm_ , but god, if it isn't good. His breath catches hard in his chest, a ragged, hitching mess as his hands curl against Atobe's back. Atobe's cock feels even _bigger_ when he's tense and shivering, and it was already almost too much, already enough to make him feel like he's way too _full_ , but--

 

In a way, this is even better.

 

It really doesn't take more than that single, twitching burst of tension for him to come. It almost hurts coming that hard, because it's way more full-bodied than Ryouma _ever_ remembers it being. It starts from inside, where Atobe's cock presses against something that makes him _ache_ , and Ryouma sobs against Atobe's shoulder, dripping slick and messy between them as he spills, pretty sure that he's going to die any moment now and he'd be _really_ okay with it. 

 

“There we go,” Atobe murmurs, his voice catching now, hips twitching up hard with every little spasm that shudders through Ryouma’s body. Feeling the boy come so hard it sounds like his heart is breaking is enough to drive him to the edge, but he can’t let it end yet. He breathes in deep, burying his face in Ryouma’s hair, trying to get his breathing to regulate already so he doesn’t just _spill_.

 

“Nnh, just hold on,” he breathes. Surely, Ryouma had expected that he has at least some of that famous stamina in every part of himself. “Tell me if you need to stop, or--ah--I won’t.” He _might_ not anyway, to be honest. He might not be _able_ to.

 

The sound that leaves Ryouma's throat is a pathetic whimper at best, but it has nothing to do with the threat of Atobe not stopping. It's the fact that his cock _tries_ to get hard again just because of those words, because the idea of Atobe _just not stopping_ is way better than anything Ryouma could come up with on his own. 

 

"D…don't stop." If he was melted before, he's infinitely boneless now, held up only courtesy of Atobe's hands and that cock deep inside of him. Ryouma's face presses its way into Atobe's neck, and he _tries_ to wriggle down, to encourage him, but at most, it's sort of a weak, needy squirm that he can't quite coordinate. "Need it--"

 

Ryouma is going to _kill_ him. He’d always thought it would happen on a tennis court, but this is just as good, maybe better. 

 

Atobe moves, lurching up onto his knees, and lifts Ryouma off him just long enough to turn him facedown, hiking the boy’s hips up in the air. “There we go,” he murmurs, sliding in deep and smooth, loving the way Ryouma’s hole looks when it clenches, the boy obviously desperate and hungry for him. “Now you can just relax. I’ll give you everything you need.”

 

If it were Kunimitsu, he’d be doing this a bit differently--but it’s _not_. It’s Ryouma, and he isn’t sure exactly what the boy is going to like or hate. This, at least, will let Ryouma melt down onto the bed without slowing down his pace.

 

 _Oh._ This is good, too.

 

In a way, it's even better. It's even less effort, more of Atobe's cock inside of him _harder_ , and Ryouma likes that a lot. He sags down into the mattress, his face shoved into a pillow, his fingers sort of kneading into the sheets when Atobe slides in long and deep. It makes his back arch and his mouth just fall open, the desperate twitch of his cock making his knees shake and body clench tighter still around every inch of Atobe's cock. 

 

If he comes again, Atobe's going to make fun of him. _Good._

 

Like this, it’s easier, less stress. Atobe can go at his own pace, smooth and steady with every roll of his hips into the boy, his hands holding Ryouma’s ass in the air. “You’re so good at taking this much,” he murmurs, giving the boy plenty of praise, lots of petting, to go with the nonstop thrust of a thick cock inside of him. It’s hard to believe it’s his first time, though Atobe is completely certain it is.

 

Finally, even his own stamina starts to go ragged around the edges. He speeds up, until his hips are slapping harsh against Ryouma’s ass every time, leaving it red and undoubtedly aching from the abuse already. “Tell me now,” Atobe groans, lurching forward so he covers Ryouma’s body completely, “if you don’t want it inside you here.” He definitely deserves recognition for being generous as all hell.

 

"Don't you _dare_ take it out--" Ryouma's pretty proud that he makes that sound as coherent as he does, but it's mostly because he's pretty sure he can't _function_ without Atobe's cock inside him as deep as this. It makes his mind shut off, makes his cock hard when he's very sure it shouldn't already _be_ hard again, makes him ache and shiver to the core--and it's so, _so_ good. Ryouma claws his way into clinging to a pillow, the noises that escape his throat breaking with every thrust now, high and breathy and desperate. "I _need it_." 

 

“Should have known you’d be fucking demanding.” Atobe grunts with every harsh thrust, bending over and placing a hot, wet, biting kiss to the back of Ryouma’s neck. He can feel that telltale tenseness in the boy again, and thank _god_ , at least maybe if he makes him come twice, Ryouma will think about relaxing enough to let him come free. He’s so tight that it’s almost painful, which just makes it better, makes his cock harder, makes him fuck the boy even _more_.

 

He snakes a hand around, and at least they’ve done this part enough that he knows what Ryouma likes, just how to tug and twist and pull on his cock to get the boy _there_ fast. He’s not usually concerned with speed--sometimes it takes literally hours to get Kunimitsu off--but this is Ryouma’s first time. It’s going to be good. “Got any left in there for me?” he breathes, rubbing his thumb over the slit of Ryouma’s cock as he rolls his hips in hard.

 

It's that touch and that voice and the way that Atobe seems to know just _how_ to shove his dick in him that makes Ryouma just sort of moan a response. He sags into that hand, desperately wondering if he really can come again, if he's too sore and wound too tight to make it happen--

 

But that's kind of a useless thought process when his body seizes up in a long, drawn-out shudder, when he suddenly can't feel anything but Atobe's mouth on the back of his neck, biting him and holding him down like he's some animal being fucked, when all his mind wants to focus on is the fact that Atobe's cock is still inside of him and that's really, _really_ good.

 

Ryouma loses himself with another whimper, and he's not even sure if he _comes_ so much as he's just turned to a puddle, limp and shivering in Atobe's grasp.

 

…which is about how he stays, and that's good. Sleep is good after this particular day, and he wants to keep that way for some time. 

 


	10. Sanada & Yukimura, Yagyuu & Niou

Yukimura feels good.

 

He has every right to feel good. Finding out that his opponent from the night prior was Echizen Ryouma makes him giddy in ways that it probably shouldn't…but it just _does_. He's better. He defeated the kid handily. He's _better_.

 

He's _back to the way he used to be._ When is he going to have a novel written about his miracle recovery? 

 

At least, that's how it feels the morning of the ranking matches, and he dives into his block with gusto. 

 

Sure, he's still stiff and sore in odd places. Sure, his movements still need work, but that's to be expected. It's all still _there_ , though, and each and every match breezes past until he ends up facing the last one of the day.

 

Niou's fun to play--well, to a point. Yukimura does like when Niou ends up in his ranking block, because Niou at least has fun on his own end of things. It doesn't last, though, because the yips seem to be inevitable. Niou lasts longer than most, which is good, but… 

 

Ah, well. 

 

Yukimura's next service game is over in an instant. 5-0 now, which feels good. It's Niou's service, which…mm, it's always sort of questionable when the yips come into play and that coordination is just _gone_.

 

"Double fault! 0-15!"

 

Yukimura exhales a long sigh.

 

"Fault!"

 

The net sways again.

 

"Double fault! 0-30!" 

 

And then a car backfires. 

 

Yukimura almost doesn't see it, but it's all in the way that Niou _bolts_ , jumping out of his skin from the sound. He shouldn't have been able to hear that. He shouldn't have even been able to react anywhere close to that. 

 

Did Niou actually get _over_ the yips?

 

_No, that's not it._

 

He never had them to begin with.

 

There's a sick twist in the pit of Yukimura's stomach when that realization slams into him. There's a roar in his ears to boot, and it makes him nauseated enough that he's pretty sure his breakfast is going to come up in about five seconds. He whirls away, ignoring any and all shouts in Niou's direction (probably Sanada) and anything tossed in his direction (maybe Yanagi, maybe Niou trying to explain himself) because he _doesn't want to hear it._

 

It isn't as if it will make a lick of difference, anyway. 

 

Everything rushes back in a wave of doubt. What if Echizen Ryouma had been faking the yips last night just to trick him? It might have all been a tactic to hide his true ability. What if he's just _not_ ready? What if he won't be anywhere close to ready in time for _any_ match, let alone against Hyoutei or Seigaku? 

 

The clubhouse door slams behind him, his racquet on the ground, and his hand throbs when it collides with the nearest locker. 

 

 _I'm just not going to be good enough._  

 

“Seiichi.”

 

He needs time, Yanagi has said. He’ll get better on his own, his doctors had said. He just needs space, his parents had said.

 

Sanada has given him time, and space, and waited, but all he can see is the way Yukimura is going to stress himself right back into the hospital. It’s one thing when it's just a matter of himself, but this is getting out of hand.

 

He’d _thought_ he could bring the light back to those soft brown eyes. He’d thought that by winning the Kantou, by keeping Rikkai undefeated, he could give Yukimura enough hope to get through. He’s been wrong the whole time, and now he sees it. Yukimura doesn’t need time. He doesn’t need space. He doesn’t need to get over it. He doesn’t need to win Nationals.

 

He needs what comes after.

 

Sanada closes the door behind himself, leaning back against it as he eyes Yukimura, watching his trembling back, knowing how much pain he’s in. “You know there will be life after next week, come what may.”

 

"You don't get it at all!" 

 

Yukimura hates the way his voice cracks. He hates even more the way that he sags forward into the lockers, letting his forehead press into the cold metal as his chest heaves. Sanada _doesn't_ get it. Yukimura was sure at one point that he did, but if he's saying things like _that_ , then there's no way. "You don't get it," he repeats on a waver. "If I can't win--if I can't play at _all_ , then what's the point of everything I did before?!"

 

“You’re going to win.” Sanada turns him around, gathers Yukimura in his arms--if anyone has had enough of cold, impersonal metal, it’s Yukimura--and holds him close to his broad chest, with no room for protests. “You’re our unbeatable miracle. You didn’t let _eight months_ in a hospital stop you from believing that--don’t let _Niou Masaharu_ do it!” A very real amount of scorn creeps into his voice for _Niou Masaharu_ at that. “But you’d be stupid to pretend that you haven’t been dealt a challenge by the gods you believe in!” He reaches out to touch the magatama at Yukimura’s neck, gently brushing over the curve of the cool stone.

 

Yukimura is often a slave to his impulses, but that's rarely the case when it comes to just wanting to _dissolve_. 

 

That being said, he's usually not tired, angry, sweaty, _hurting_ and so upset that he can't even see straight when that impulse is presented to him. He's usually not squished up against Sanada's chest, but he is right now, and the first little waver of resolution presents itself in his lower lip stupidly, pathetically trembling. "But it's…it's _different_ because it's Niou." That sounds even more pathetic, but it's too late now. Yukimura feels himself start to wilt. "Why would Niou lie to my face like that? Why couldn't he just _play me?_ If he thinks I can't win, who else feels that way? Last night--" He's done now, that's it. "I played Echizen Ryouma, and it was _easy_. He almost beat you, so it shouldn't have been easy, he had to just be lying to me and that means that I'm not going to come _close_ to winning."

 

Sanada could cheerfully murder Niou. It sounds like a good plan. Instead…

 

“Play me.” It won’t solve every problem, and this is _not_ the time to get into why Yukimura was wandering around Tokyo at night playing random prodigies, but it might do something. “Let anyone in the world say I’d ever let you win. If I beat you, you’ll know how far you still have to go. And _then_ , once you’ve beaten me, I’ll tell you about what’s going to happen after Nationals.”

 

The dent in his ego still stings, and makes the first thought on his mind _but I don't want to lose to you_ instead of _of course I'll win, that's not a contest._ That hurts more than his head or stomach right then, and Yukimura shudders, not quite ready to unfasten himself from Sanada's chest. "You're already done with your ranking block. It's not going to count for anything." Now he's been reduced to making excuses. That's _so_ great.

 

Sanada’s hand flies back for a moment, and he very seriously considers slapping his captain again. “Don’t tell me it wouldn’t mean anything.” Instead of hitting him, he moves to brush the backs of his fingers across one cheek. It’s not a very graceful movement, but he’s not _really_ sure what he’s doing, or if anything will work. “It isn’t as if we don’t learn something every time we play. I remember how much you used to like playing unofficial matches, even more than the others.” His grip tightens, and his voice gets a little softer, as soft as a man like himself can really make it. “You’re the only person who thinks you have to never lose. No one else thinks that.”

 

 _Then why did Niou lie to me like that_ is on the tip of his tongue again, but Yukimura swallows it down, glancing down to his shoes with a slow, shaky breath before his head tips forward against Sanada's touch. "I just want to come back and be the way I was before. I don't…" His voice cracks, and he sniffs--belligerently, mind, because he's _not_ crying, he's _not_. "I don't know what else to do to get there. I'm the captain, I'm supposed to know." 

 

“No other captain has it figured out! Why should you?” Sanada demands. “Tezuka lost to Atobe. Atobe lost the Kantou. No one else is even worth _mentioning_ , they’re so far beneath you and I.” He pulls away this time, gently wiping Yukimura’s face on his sleeve. “ _Kintsugi_. The mended parts are the strongest, and the most beautiful. That doesn’t mean they were never broken, and never needed repair.”

 

"…I'm supposed to be--" _Better than them. Better than anyone. The number one in all of Japan. That's why I'm supposed to have it all figured out._

 

It doesn't quite come out, not when his next sniff turns to a hiccup and well, that's the dam breaking. 

 

Yukimura doesn't let Sanada pull away. He grabs onto him with all his might and yanks him back and stuffs his face right into one broad shoulder when his own heave and sag. "S-sorry," he whispers, trying even now not to just wail and sob like a baby, even when his face is soaking wet and he wants to just curl up on the floor and maybe shut himself up in a locker. "Sorry--just--five seconds--th--then we can go play." 

 

It's not like he knows what else to do, anyway. 

 

“There’s no time limit.” Words are coming to him far easier than usual. Sanada isn’t entirely sure why; maybe it’s because usually, Yukimura is the strong one. Yukimura is the brave one. Yukimura is the one who’s not afraid of anything, not of surgery or death or losing, and without that…

 

_Someone has to._

 

“Do you want to know what is going to happen after Nationals?” he rumbles, stroking Yukimura’s hair gently with one hand, using the other arm to secure the boy to his chest.

 

Yukimura's breath hiccups again, and he nods his head into the crook of Sanada's neck. This is embarrassing, this is _stupid_ , but he can't quite bring himself to reel it all in right now, not when Sanada is holding onto him strong and secure. It's _okay_ if Sanada sees him like this. Only Sanada. "Mmn. Wanna know."

 

“I was keeping it a surprise.” That doesn’t matter now. Nothing matters more than making Yukimura feel better _right now_. Maybe the anticipation will help pull him out of this...funk. “I bought you something. Well, made. I bought parts of it.”

 

" _You_ bought something?" The sheer ridiculousness of that alone makes Yukimura lift his head, sniffing and red-eyed. Ah, shit. He's going to start blinking his contacts out. He pulls back a bit, trying not to rub at his eyes. "Don't…don't lie. You n-never even take me out for ramen, you cheapskate." 

 

“I told you,” Sanada grumbles. “I was _saving_ it. For this.” He doesn’t exactly let Yukimura go, but he shuffles slightly, getting into his locker for the blueprints. “I’ve been saving for this since we were seven. It’s….it’s pretty much done, now.” He hopes Yukimura gets it. It’s stupid, and trite, but if anyone gets it, it’ll be Yukimura.

 

Yukimura sniffles again. It takes a minute for him to look, because his vision's blurry and his head's pounding and _this_ is why he never cries, aside from the fact that his body seems to have some sort of built-in defense against the mere idea. 

 

But then he _looks_ , and he's pretty sure he's just going to start crying again. 

 

"Don't _lie_ about this, you can't b-be _serious_ \--" Except it's Sanada, and Sanada doesn't know how to _not_ be serious about things like this, and Yukimura feels his lower lip trembling even when he bites it. "You built our _house?_ " 

 

Sanada’s face flushes. “It’s too presumptuous, I know,” he mumbles, feeling once again like an old man who’d been mistakenly put in the wrong, awkward body. It’s too big a gesture; even if _he_ knows how he feels, there’s no room in Yukimura’s heart for him like there is for tennis, he _knows_ that. “You--I don’t expect us to live there or anything,” he stammers, unable to meet Yukimura’s eyes. “I know you have so many things you want to do. I just...it’s there. If you want it. At all, even for...even for a day.”

 

" _Genichirou_ \--"

 

Apparently, sobbing and clinging to Sanada's neck is a new, stupid, _dumb_ thing that he's going to do. Apparently, this whole thing pokes at a nerve that Yukimura didn't know about, but it's not bad, it's just--

 

Overwhelming. 

 

Life after tennis? What even _is that?_ It makes his breath catching his chest and apparently, he's just going to keep sobbing. Gross, gross, he's really gross and this is really less than cute, but--

 

"You're too good," is the pathetic, sniffling mumble into Sanada's neck when Yukimura shoves his face there. "It's good, it's really good, _thank you_ \--"

 

That gratitude, that genuine affection, is what does Sanada in, and gives him confidence all at once. “You’re coming there. After Nationals, no matter what the final score is. You’re staying there for two weeks, and you,” he says sternly, cupping Yukimura’s face in his two large hands, “are going to let me get you better. Fresh food, no Red Bull, rest, relaxation, good clean mountain air. No objections.” _Unless you hate it, please don’t hate me._

 

Yukimura just nods, teary-eyed and kind of wilting. Really gross. But Sanada is about as far from gross as any man can be, and _that_ just makes him want to put himself into Sanada's apparently very capable hands. "You didn't let me see you build it," he sadly says, sniffling again. "I wanted to watch you build it. Shirtless. In a fundoshi." 

 

“You’re making it really weird,” Sanada mutters, feeling his cheeks heat up. Then he hesitates. “But if it’ll help you feel better, I’ll catch you fish in the stream up there. I’ll wear whatever you want.”

 

"Will you catch them with your bare hands?" Yukimura hopefully asks, blinking away the wetness from his lashes. "Or with a spear? Both are good." 

 

“I can do both, of course.” What a silly question. “Want me to teach you? It’s not hard to learn, you just have to be patient. Mm, but you’re not allowed to get that much sun this time.”

 

Yukimura shakes his head, and flops back into Sanada's chest with a weary little shudder. "Just wanna watch you do it. When you do it…ugh, you're so _manly_. Your muscles and everything…" 

 

“And you’re going to watch, then eat the food I cook you. I’m not as good as your mother’s cook,” Sanada admits, “but I also won’t feed you anything with preservatives or additives or coloring.” His fingers card gently through Yukimura’s hair, lips brushing the top of his head. “I’d keep you up there for a year if I could, just healing. There’s nothing more important to me than you being well, permanently.”

 

"I just want to feel better again." Yukimura hates the shake in his voice, but he means it, more than anything he's said in a long, long time. He sags a bit, tension dissolving from his shoulders the more he leans into Sanada's hold. "I guess there's no hope for a tennis court up there, huh?" 

 

“No.” About that, he’s firm. “I’ll wear a fundoshi all day if that’ll keep your mind off of tennis for a couple weeks. Just…” His arms squeeze, and he can feel Yukimura’s heartbeat through his own chest. As it should be. “No matter what happens in the matches, our cabin isn’t going anywhere.”

 

His mind off of tennis. Right. Well, if anything can do it, Sanada in a fundoshi can. Yukimura just settles for nodding, burrowing, attempting to sort of meld himself with Sanada. "Okay." He exhales, long and slow. "Okay. Just…just keep telling me that. I'm sorry for being such a burden with all of this--and for making it so difficult, but…" 

 

“You have never been a burden.” 

 

That’s not exactly true, but he can’t say that. He can’t say the truth--it’s a burden, and he likes it that way. He likes being the one chosen to carry it. It makes him feel strong, competent, needed. 

 

“Two weeks. Just get through this next week, and then it will just be two weeks of the sun and the river and our house.” They’d planned it meticulously when they were children. Even Yukimura doesn’t know how far he’s gone with it.

 

Yukimura nods. He can do that. The promise of Sanada and _their_ house makes it possible, at any rate. He butts his face once more against Sanada's shoulder, attempting to scrub off the grossness of tears and sweat before drawing back. "Give me a minute, and we can go back out," he mumbles. "I don't want anyone to know I was crying. It's really not cool." 

 

Ah, admitting this is embarrassing, but…

 

Sanada roots in his locker once more, pulling out a small bottle. “Allergy eyedrops,” he admits. “It takes the redness right out. Give it about twenty seconds.”

 

"Weakling," is the still-wet giggle to follow, but Yukimura takes the bottle all the same. " _That_ explains your aversion to weed-pulling." 

 

“I do _not_ have allergies,” Sanada says, dismayed, before realizing he probably should have let Yukimura keep thinking that. “I just...sometimes a man needs to get rid of redness, is all,” he finishes in a mumble, folding his arms over his chest.

 

"…Crybaby," comes Yukimura's corrected insult as he tips his head back, a drop put into each eye in quick succession. "When you cry, it's _manly_ , though." 

 

“Shut up.” Sanada snatches the drops back, grabbing them from Yukimura and stashing them carefully in his locker, as far out of Niou’s plain sight as possible. “There. You look back to normal already,” he says, knowing how much those words mean.

 

Yukimura sucks in a slow breath and nods, straightening his stance. "Okay. Good." He hesitates, glancing back to Sanada. "I'm not wrong to be upset with Niou, am I? That stunt he pulled…"

 

“When I catch him, there will be a reckoning,” Sanada answers immediately, cracking the knuckles of his slapping hand.

 

"Yeah, good." Yukimura reaches over to give one of Sanada's biceps a squeeze--it gives him strength, yes it does--before scooping up his racquet and striding out. He's got this. Definitely got this. "What are you all just standing around for?!"

 

The flurry of activity on the court is nothing less than panicked. Yanagi, fortunately, still has Akaya firmly in hand, and is teaching him a new backhand slice that is pretty much the only thing that will keep the boy’s mind off of murdering Niou. “Welcome back, Captain. Are you satisfied with the results of the ranking tournament?”

 

Before Yukimura can even open his mouth, Kirihara just _has_ to blurt out: "Niou-sempai made you _cry_ , Yukimura-buchou--are you okay? I can go after him and--um, what's it called, yeah, defend your honor, I've _got_ this--"

 

Everyone freezes anew. One of Yukimura's eyebrows twitches up. "You're seeing things, Akaya. I didn't cry."

 

"But--"

 

"I said I didn't cry! Sanada! Tell Akaya as much, then meet me on the court!"

 

Sanada informs Akaya very succinctly--with a backhand to the face--that Yukimura does not, in fact, cry. Ever. “I accept your challenge,” he says, bowing to Yukimura as he switches his grip on his racquet. “And I—come _here_ , you bastard, I’m going to—” 

 

He makes a grab for Niou, but misses, and a flash of silver rattail is all he sees again before Niou completely disappears. “Fine!” he bellows. “Court!”

 

Kirihara has never been more confused (that's a lie, because he's usually about as confused as this, if not slightly more), and Yukimura at least feels somewhat better after being able to burn off a generous amount of steam against Sanada. 

 

"I have no idea where he's gone," Yagyuu desperately insists afterwards, holding his hands up in surrender. There's been a generous amount of yanking on his hair, all to make sure that he's not Niou. "I'm sorry that Niou-kun made you cry, Yukimura-kun, but--"

 

"He didn't make me cry!" Yukimura shrilly insists from across the locker room.

 

"Right, yes, of course--at any rate, while I understand what he was doing was…less than honorable, he was just attempting to make you feel better--"

 

"He better show up for practice tomorrow so I can kill him," Yukimura mutters, slamming his locker shut.

 

~

 

Yagyuu’s window is easy as hell to climb in. That’s for the best, given that Niou is a hell of a lot more likely to go in that way than by attempting to deal with Yagyuu’s parents. He slithers in now, and doesn’t even pause to give Yagyuu a chance to say hello before he starts pacing, scratching absently at the back of his head. “Hey. Uh, hey. I, uh...yeah, hey, I fucked up. I fucked up, _wow_ , I fucked up so bad.”

 

Sometimes, there are times that Niou shows up, and Yagyuu has to wonder if he's somehow gotten ahold of a large amount of narcotics. 

 

"Okay," Yagyuu attempts to greet, slowly turning in his chair to look Niou over. He doesn't _look_ like he's in terrible shape, but… "What did you do?" 

 

“Something bad.” Niou shies away from even the idea of specifics, attempting to get down and then standing up again immediately. Too much nervous energy, not enough release, not enough _anything_ to distract him. He laughs weakly, and mutters, “Fucked up. I...yeah, shit, I’m gonna fucking die, you want anything? I’ll give you the key to my place, you can take whatever you want.”

 

"…Is this a yakuza thing?" Yagyuu warily hedges as he tries to reach out and snag Niou's wrist. He misses, so he sighs and climbs to his feet, following after Niou's pacing. "Or is this just your sister sending you weird threats again? How _actually_ dead are we talking here, Niou-kun?" 

 

Niou hardly notices that he’s developed a tail, though he does start unintentionally zig-zagging across the floor just a bit, just out of habit. His mind is still full of his own fucking audacity, and of all the ways this is going to end with him in a hundred pieces. “I, shit, I fucked up, Yukimura’s going to murder me. I…” He grimaces, and turns swiftly, slumping back against the wall. “You were right, I should have kept it in my pants.”

 

For a moment, Yagyuu doesn't even really know how to respond to that.

 

He settles for staring, attempting to piece together what little information he has--which admittedly, really isn't all that much. "Niou-kun," he slowly attempts, reaching out to grab the other boy's shoulder before he can start zigzagging again, "what did you _do?_ _Who_ did you do? Did you--and Yukimura-kun--I thought you two were _fighting_ right now." 

 

Niou laughs weakly, raking a hand back through his hair. There’s a slight impulse to fight free of that hold, but Yagyuu’s good at holding him in a way that makes him okay with it, and he slumps a little more. “Nah, nah, I wouldn’t do that. I went to his house--to apologize to him, I _swear_. I just--he wasn’t there, and she was wearing that expensive French lingerie, and…” He shrugs, as if to indicate that there are few men who can control themselves in the presence of expensive French lingerie.

 

Yagyuu stares a little longer before it clicks. "Oh. _Oh_." He has both hands on Niou's shoulders now, both to keep him in place and give him a little shake. "Niou-kun, you didn't--you didn't have sex with his _mother_ , did you? She's--you know she's _married_." It's hard not to be wide-eyed about this. "Yukimura-kun is going to _murder you_." 

 

Niou’s eyes are a little wild, and he reaches up to grab Yagyuu’s wrists. “Hey, you wanna go somewhere? Skip town? We can go anywhere. I gotta be honest, I have money stashed like you wouldn’t believe. Let me get you something to remember me by.”

 

"We can't just skip town," Yagyuu hisses, digging his fingers into Niou's shoulders. "You have to face this! Apologize! Get down with your head pressed to the floor, maybe then he'll forgive you for…well, for everything, you're the _worst_ , Niou-kun!" He pauses for a moment, bites his lip, and then sort of awkwardly looks to the side. "Was it _good?_ "

 

Niou whimpers a little bit, flashing back to the moments before, and sags against the wall. “I’m never going to touch a woman like that again, _shit_ , all creamy thighs and perfume I should have to pay to smell and her _lips_ —” He breaks off, strangled and half-hysterical. “She wanted a threesome with you.”

 

Now that he thinks about it, Yagyuu can kind of smell that perfume all over Niou. Shit, shit, shit. "She…she did? I was pretty sure she was always into Kirihara-kun. You know, in that…odd, very attractive mother way…" Yukimura's mother really shouldn't be allowed to be that attractive. Or look like him. A _lot_. 

 

Niou clutches at Yagyuu’s shirt, hauling him close, his eyes wide. “Man, she’s _insatiable_. I’m pretty sure she’s into the whole team, and _Christ_ , the noises--she’s--she’s so noisy, I can’t get it out of my head!” There’s a despairing wail somewhere in his voice, and he sighs a little, half-dreamy. “Her _tits_ though, they’re like….you know how it would be if the Captain had tits? They’re literally _just like that_.”

 

Yagyuu whimpers as he sort of flops into Niou's chest, sagging into him and crushing him against the wall in the process. "I…a threesome would be such a bad idea," he weakly attempts to protest. It sounds like a great idea, though. Because-- _well_. Yukimura got his looks from somewhere, and it's sort of a running joke that they've never met his father (except Sanada, who seems too horrified to speak of it), so it _has_ to be from his pretty, nice-smelling, pale-skinned mother. "Niou-kun, we can't both die. We…we have Nationals in like, a week and a half." 

 

Niou burrows into Yagyuu’s chest. At least for a couple minutes, he doesn’t have to look at anyone judging him. “On a scale of one to the morgue,” he says, muffled into the other boy’s skin, “what are my chances of making it out of this without the Captain finding out?”

 

It's a good opportunity to pet Niou's hair without him being weird about it for a few minutes, so Yagyuu goes for it. "Body bag after faking your death?" he wearily supplies. "Niou-kun, you _probably_ should just tell him. The next time we're all over at his house, you _know_ his mother's just…well, she never keeps her mouth shut about things, I have no doubts she'd make some _comment_ that would get him thinking." 

 

“I dunno if talking about this is a good thing, man.” Niou makes a face, and butts his head against Yagyuu’s hand. Yeah. The petting can continue. He kind of needs it, just now. “I mean...this is like, the mother of all bad ideas. There aren’t even _words_ for how bad I fucked up. Aw, fuck it, I’ll tell him tomorrow morning. Dying is one thing, but I just _can’t_ live like this.”

 

"You're a little too strung out about it," Yagyuu agrees, heaving a sigh as he starts kneading both hands into Niou's hair. It's for the best, really. "This is two strikes, you know. I thought you had better impulse control than this, Niou-kun, especially in light of the _other_ fiasco." There has been enough glaring whenever anyone attempts to bring it up that he's actually a little afraid to talk about it. 

 

“I was _freaking out_ , okay?” Niou pulls away from the touch, even more anxious than before now. “And she was so nice, and it was his smile, you know? I mean, fuck, _you_ try saying ‘no’ to that smile, you _know_ how he is! And it just happened, and now even _you’re_ yelling at me, shit, I’m just gonna hop a train.”

 

"I'm not yelling at you! Come--come back here, no, not out the window, _Niou-kun_ \--" Yagyuu hisses, hauling him back and to the bed this time with a firm yank and then shove. " _Sit._ You're not going anywhere. If you're that nervous about it, just--" He starts chewing on his lip again, thinking of logistics and deciding that they've done much, much worse before. "Just stay the night here. You don't need to hop a train. I'll go with you when you talk to him about it, okay?" Damn it all, but he does know the _problem_ with their captain's smiling face.

 

Yagyuu isn’t the most exciting guy Niou knows. He’s not the fastest, or the coolest, or the hottest, or the strongest.

 

He _is_ , by far, the most comforting. He’s a stodgy, boring port in a storm, and Niou’s way too good at finding those storms. He reaches out now, grabbing Yagyuu’s arm and pulling him down to the bed so he can burrow under the other boy’s shirt. “I’ll stay here tonight,” he says, muffled slightly. “Hey, is there any really freaky shit you want to do that we haven’t done? If he’s as mad as I assume, we might never get the chance again.”

 

"I--" Thinking about it, they've already done a great deal of 'freaky shit.' With that in mind, Yagyuu just sort of sighs, tugs the sheets up and over them, and pulls his shirt over Niou's head a bit more thoroughly. He's just going to _be there_ , apparently. He starts petting Niou's back instead. "I can't think of anything. Please just remember that he _does_ need us at Nationals. He can't possibly kill us both _yet_." 

 

“Don’t put it past him,” Niou says gloomily. “Well…” There _is_ the fact that in his life, he’s seen Yukimura being far more passionate about tennis than about his family. He slumps, turning to rub his face against Yagyuu’s skin. It’s all Yagyuu’s fault, even if he won’t say it. “You should’ve come with me. I told you you should’ve.”

 

"And then we _both_ would have slept with her," Yagyuu incredulously returns, shifting a little when Niou just keeps _burrowing_.  "Once you start something, it's very difficult to make you stop finishing it. Ah, Niou-kun, why do you always have to make a nest underneath my shirt." 

 

Niou huffs, and latches to Yagyuu’s midsection more firmly. “If you’d just grab me every once in a while, I wouldn’t grab you all the time.” That’s probably the closest he’ll come to admitting it’s _annoying_ , that he wouldn’t _fuck around_ all the time if Yagyuu was a little more _interested_ , a little more _obvious_ about it.

 

" _Grabbing you_ just seems rude," Yagyuu mumbles, frowning up at the ceiling. Somehow, this always ends up coming up in some way, and it's really not a conversation he _enjoys_ having, but--"I'm…sorry that I'm not as forward about that as you are. If you don't die, I'll make sure to…um, grab you more." 

 

Niou snorts. “ _If_. He only needs one of us. Other can be a spare. Or a sacrificial goat or something.” He turns his head, and mouths over a nipple. “Don’t strain yourself or anything, I can keep doing the grabbing.” It’s better to have to work for Yagyuu than to be with anyone else. Yagyuu gets him. It’s fucking terrifying, and Niou likes it.

 

It's probably not very manly to squeak, but it _happens_ whenever Niou does things like that. "Weird, too weird, don't do that," Yagyuu manages in a whisper, tugging on the back of Niou's shirt to try and urge him away from his damned nipples. "I'm not going to let him kill you or…or sacrifice you, or whatever. I don't want to play doubles with anyone else. And I _will_ grab you more."

 

Niou lays his head against Yagyuu’s chest when he starts squirming, just listening to his heart thudding slowly, hearing the rumble of that surprisingly deep voice. “Yeah,” he says, closing his eyes and trying to pin Yagyuu down with his bulk to stop his squirming. “You’ll keep me safe, right?” It’s a _stupid_ question. In an actual fight, Yagyuu is about as much use as six cooked noodles tied together. It’s stupid as hell that somehow, Yagyuu still makes him feel sort of safe.

 

"I'll hide you underneath my bed if I have to." Niou is heavy, especially when he's _on_ Yagyuu like this, but…well, he could hate it more. He could also hate the fact that Niou apparently wants to be taken care of more, because it's a _rare_ occurrence--and damn it if it doesn't make him feel _capable_ of something. "Or take you back home to your island. No one can get you there." Yagyuu hesitates, and gives Niou's shirt another tug. "…Come up here." _I could kiss you or something._  

 

Niou’s response time is a hell of a lot faster than it usually is for anything like a command, and he wriggles his way up at that tug, letting Yagyuu direct him. Yagyuu is surprisingly nice and cool to the touch most of the time, even in summer, and maybe that’s always been a sign. His thighs splay, knees bracing on either side of Yagyuu’s narrow hips, because honestly, their bodies just seem to work that way. “Maybe I’ll let you take me somewhere for a change,” he says, nuzzling against the other boy’s cheek.

 

"You're the one that always knows the good places, though," Yagyuu points out, wrapping a hand up into Niou's hair and lightly tugging. It's always--for lack of a better word--crunchy, courtesy of bleach and gel and who knows what else. He likes it, oddly enough. "I'd just bore you," he adds underneath his breath, tugging again to ease Niou up into a kiss, a scrape of his teeth catching against that full lower lip. 

 

“You don’t, though.” Niou’s voice is softer than usual--he’s shaken, and it shows in his voice, in his movements, though probably only Yagyuu would pick up on it. He leans into the kiss, letting Yagyuu move his head, shivering slightly at that drag of teeth. “Even when you do boring stuff,” he mutters against the other boy’s mouth, “I’m not bored.”

 

"I don't understand why you aren't," Yagyuu confesses underneath his breath as his hands tighten into Niou's hair, just enough to hold him still when he kisses him again, a little faster, a little harder. He really doesn't know what to _do_ when Niou's the one that's shaken up and stressed, but this seems better than nothing. He hopes it is, at least. He sucks in a quick breath, shoves a little, enough to roll them and get Niou on his back so that Yagyuu's the one with a better angle for kissing him like he _means it_. "But I'm _not_ ," he quietly insists between kisses, sliding up between Niou's thighs, "going to let something happen to you."

 

This is probably the best thing ever. Expensive French lingerie be damned, Niou’s pretty sure he’d rather be pinned under his stupid boring boyfriend and being slowly, thoroughly kissed than be anywhere else right now. He makes a few little noises that he hopes Yagyuu takes as the encouragement they are, and tries not to squish the other boy with his arms and legs wrapped tight around him. _If you were like this all the time, I’d never fuck anyone else,_ he’ll never say. “Yeah,” he breathes instead, leaning up for more kisses, back arching as he’s touched. “Sounds good.”

 

He must be doing _something_ right, then.

 

Niou's a problem, because he always feels ridiculously, sinfully _good_ when Yagyuu is pretty sure that guys aren't supposed to feel like that. It's kind of impossible not to snake a hand down and knead his fingers into one lean, muscular thigh, and it's even more impossible not to kiss Niou harder, savoring the way his lips are so stupidly soft and full. It's the weirdest contrast, honestly, and it makes his dick harder than _anything_ else. "You _never_ make this fair, you know," Yagyuu groans, breath catching when he gives up and just _has_ to grind down against the other boy. 

 

“Wasn’t even _doing_ anything yet,” Niou says, amused, and lets his head tip back, exposing his neck and raking his hands up Yagyuu’s back gently, through his shirt at least. “Why should anything be fair? Take what you want, that’s gonna be good for everyone.” At least it’s making him forget how fucked he is. That’s something, and Yagyuu being all protective and manly is kinda doing it for him more than he’d expected.

 

"You never even have to do anything! That's the part that isn't fair," Yagyuu indignantly hisses, trying not to arch and squirm like a damned girl when Niou's fingers scrape down his back. At least there aren't as _many_ nails digging into him--though it's not like he ever really minds that much….fuck it, he lies, he likes it a lot, he likes just about everything that's _Niou_ especially when he's on his bed and kind of sprawled out and he just sort of has to put his mouth on that neck of his and kiss and suck. "She didn't cover you in hickeys at all," Yagyuu mutters, sort of amused in spite of himself. _Wasted opportunity_. 

 

“She wasn’t into that,” Niou groans, legs splaying to let his feet plant on the bed, giving him enough leverage to rub up against Yagyuu’s hips with every breath he sucks in. “Just told me to lie down and rode me, I think I was pretty much a pricey dildo.” Not that he was complaining, especially not when Yagyuu’s mouth is so good and so _warm_ despite the cool of his skin. Already he’s thinking about the best ways to hide the marks if he needs to switch into someone else, but every scrape of teeth drives that from his mind. “You’re the one I wanna feel the next day.” Whoops, that’s probably way too clingy for Yagyuu. He can deal with it for tonight, unless Yagyuu gets weird about it.

 

Shit, that shouldn't make him even _harder_. 

 

Yagyuu swallows hard, bites down into the crook of Niou's neck and shoulder to try and get his head on straight again, but it doesn't really work when his hands are working against him and grabbing at Niou's  hips to yank him up against him, all so that they can grind harder into one another. "Everywhere?" he hoarsely manages, sure that he's holding tightly enough to Niou that he's going to bruise. "Do you want to feel me everywhere?" 

 

Niou’s cock twitches hard, and he lets out a strangled, stupid noise in his throat. _Damn_ Yagyuu for being able to get under his skin so easily, anyway. “Everywhere,” he agrees, eyes rolling back into his head when he pretty much rips off Yagyuu’s shirt, then slides one hand down the back of Yagyuu’s pants, inside his shorts, grabbing his ass firmly. “You know how Yanagi was limping and falling down and it was really pathetic? I wanna feel like that.”

 

"Yeah, okay." _Niou's hands on me, Niou grabbing at me, Niou making noises like he's going to die if I'm not in him_ \--yep, that's definitely his mind shorting right the hell out, and Yagyuu thinks it's better that way. He really hates the idea of having to pull away at all, but it's necessary to yank at Niou's pants and get them _off._ "Lube's in the nightstand," he mutters, mouthing another hot, wet kiss to the side of Niou's neck before his mouth drags up and his teeth are on the lobe of one ear, biting, tugging. "Get it fast or I'm not gonna be able to wait." Even if he doesn't _really_ mean that, Yagyuu would be a liar if he didn't admit just saying it made his cock ache. 

 

Shit, he has to hurry. Niou’s achingly hard now, cock straining in the air now that Yagyuu’s stripped him, and he grabs the lube with one precise strike of his hand, agile fingers wrapping around it and squeezing a huge dollop into his hand. Yagyuu’s big, though Niou’s been waging a petty small-scale war against him and refusing to let him know as much. His ego is fine, and he doesn’t need that kind of boost. 

 

Niou _does_ , however, need a lot of lube, and it’s been too long (like a fucking _week_ , god) since they’ve done this. He dumps the whole slick handful over the head of Yagyuu’s cock, letting it trickle slowly down the shaft, and gets another pump onto his fingers before sliding them down. “You wanna do it?” he asks, breathless even at the first brush of his own fingertips. “Or you wanna watch me?” Sometimes Yagyuu just wants to slam it into him, and while he does like the stretch of it, he’s just _really_ too tight to make anything about that fun for him.

 

It's hard to keep down a stupid, strangled noise just _looking_ at Niou when he's _thinking_ about it. Because it takes too much effort to make words for the moment, Yagyuu just settles on nodding, on snaking a hand down to grab his own cock and squeeze hard to try and sort out what's left of his sanity. "You do it," he rasps, rocking back onto his knees slightly to better _watch_. "You know I like watching you get ready for me." 

 

Shit, how does Niou _always_ make him say the worst things? The problem is that Yagyuu won't even feel embarrassed about it later, when he's _so sure_ that he should be. 

 

Fuck, Niou had thought it would be easier if it were himself doing it, but having Yagyuu _watching_ and letting him _know_ that he’s watching is even better. His cock is leaking, dripping freely by the time he thrusts a couple fingers inside himself, grunting out a curse under his breath as he tugs, spreads, strokes, and stretches himself. Yagyuu’s thick as hell, and Niou can’t look away from where his stodgy doubles partner has an elegant hand wrapped around his own cock. 

 

That sight is almost enough to distract him from the _stretch_ of it, but not quite. He’s going fast, because Yagyuu looks so fucking ready that Niou’s clenching in anticipation of it. “You wanna use a condom?” he breathes, because sometimes Yagyuu is a fucking pervert. “You can dump it on my face after.” He should probably feel shame ever. Probably. Nah.

 

Yagyuu has really never reached for a condom faster in his life. 

 

It's not the easiest to put it on when his hands are shaky and he's so hard that everything _hurts_ , but it's worth it from the look on Niou's face and that stupid, perverse idea that has him fucking _twitching_. He leans over to grab more lube, always more lube, damn it, and then grabs at Niou's wrist, pushing his hand away. "You're ready enough," he insists, surging up to kiss Niou again, sloppier this time, kind of half-missing his mouth in his eagerness. His cock rubs against that slick hole, and he swears he's going to die. "You can take it, you know you can." 

 

Ah, shit, shit.

 

Niou can take it-- _kind_ of. He claps a hand over his own mouth, bucking helplessly and groaning like his life is over when Yagyuu slides into him. The problem isn’t necessarily the size, because fuck, he likes the size a hell of a lot more than he wants to admit.

 

The problem is that he gets so _tight_ that his legs tense, his back arches, and he squeezes and clenches down without meaning to, strangling the life out of Yagyuu’s cock every time he slides in without a good half hour of prep.

 

Whatever, if Yagyuu wants to be impatient he can deal with it. He feels thick and hard and hot and _great_ inside Niou, and every little movement makes him writhe on it, arching and gasping and trying to take it. “Fuuuuck,” he moans, involuntary tears streaming from his eyes as he bucks down for more. He lunges for Yagyuu’s mouth, kissing him inaccurately, intensely. “F-f-f…”

 

He _can’t_.

 

The breath's gone from his lungs, and that's probably a good thing when Yagyuu is so sure that he'd be making more than enough noises to make his parents come _check on them._  

 

As it is, he just can't even breathe.

 

This is always the worst (best) part--getting it _in_ all the way. It takes time, and effort, and he probably should be gentler, but that doesn't ever seem to help and it's always just _better_ once he's in all the way. He grabs up Niou by the hips, his own hands shaking, heat twisting in his belly and his pulse pounding when he just _shoves_ , sliding in those last few inches until that's all of it, until their skin slaps together and he can't even strangle down a groan anymore. 

 

"It's in, all the way in--" Yagyuu's hands drag up, squeezing around Niou's waist when he lurches forward, kissing him hard, trying to keep himself sane when Niou's so tight around him that it makes _everything_ ache. "You feel _so_ good-- _perfect_ \--"

 

Niou gives up a little, sagging boneless, twitching, _limp_ back to the bed. Yagyuu fills him up the way he doesn’t let anyone else, and he’s so fucking into it it’s scary. It fills him up, the _hunger_ for more, and he tries to slam down on that thick cock for more, but can barely move enough to twitch his fingers. 

 

Usually, sex feels like _fucking_. With Yagyuu, it’s impossible to shake the idea that _there’s someone inside me_ , and Niou reaches up to snatch the glasses off of the other boy’s face, hurling them uncaring to the side as his hands drag up Yagyuu’s back, clawing and urging. He can feel his cock trembling, liquid dripping steadily down the underside as he bites Yagyuu’s lip, tasting blood. “You’re in me,” he grunts, affirming, grateful.

 

Yagyuu is pretty into the idea that he's going to be as scratched and bitten up as Niou, no matter if he's going to regret it later.

 

He doesn't regret it right now, not when he can _feel_ every twitch and shudder and spasm of Niou around him. Yagyuu _has_ to grab and tug at him, unable to help himself when he rolls his hips, fucks into Niou deep, that mind-numbing, throbbing _ache_ broken up only by the sharpness of Niou's teeth and nails. "You're so _hard_ ," he mutters, kind of amazed that Niou can stay that hard when he's being fucked like this, when it obviously takes effort for Niou to _take him_. But shit, he can feel Niou's cock whenever he presses close, and Yagyuu can't help but reach for it when he shoves in again, loving the way Niou's cock drips messily over his fingers, all slick and sticky.

 

“Feels so fucking good.” Niou’s voice is strangled and unsteady, and his thighs shake when Yagyuu shoves in hard. He shoves at his hair, getting it out of his face as his head tips back, breathing only when Yagyuu’s sliding out of him. Every thrust makes his eyes cross at how damn good it feels, at how much it steals his breath and makes him melt. Yagyuu’s hand is good, but so fucking secondary to that hard cock filling him to bursting.

 

“W-when you’re in me,” he whimpers, hands sliding down to fist in the sheets, unable to do much of anything else. “It’s all I can--think about, your big goddamn dick in me—”

 

He breaks out into a senseless moan, biting his lip so he doesn’t just come, wanting it not that way, not just yet. The longer he can stay painfully hard, the more earth-shattering it will be when he finally lets go.

 

Yagyuu should probably tell Niou to shut up, but the noises are just way, _way_ too good. 

 

Also, he's not going to be good at shutting up, either.

 

"You look--" Yagyuu makes the mistake of _looking at him_ , when Niou's all splayed out over his bed and wriggling and shuddering and looking like he's going to die if he doesn't have more dick in him. He _has_ to fucking oblige, of course, and chokes down a deep groan when he shoves in hard, planting his knees in to make _sure_ that he can get in there as deep as Niou wants. "You look like you _need it_ ," he pants out, lunging up to bite at Niou's shoulder, marking him where only _he's_ going to know to look. "I like-- _love_ being able to make you come--just from fucking you like this--" 

 

“More,” Niou agrees, though he’s not entirely sure what the question is. Something about cock. Yeah, he wants more of that. Everything is kind of fuzzy and shiny and _great_ and _god_ he’s stuffed full. He seizes onto some thread of conversation, and lets his head loll away from the bite, encouraging Yagyuu to do it more. “Need your fucking cock, need more of it, fuck me until I can’t even—”

 

He can’t even _talk_ , not sure what he was going to say when he’s so full he can’t stop his eyes from watering with every thrust. That’s what he wants, wants to feel pitiful and broken tomorrow, wants Yagyuu to just have everything, shit, _everything_ he wants. “M-make me cry,” he rasps, even if it’s a done deal and all he can feel is the way he’s twitching and clenching on Yagyuu’s cock, so hard he’s going to burst, god, so close.

 

Yeah, okay. Yagyuu can do _that_. 

 

So sue him, but he loves it when Niou just _tells him_ down to the smallest details what he wants out of sex. He loves being able to just lurch forward and grab Niou and shove him down and _fuck him_ , to bite him when he's stuffing him so full of cock that his own breath is ripped from his lungs at the way that Niou arches up and squeezes around him and shudders from head to toe. 

 

The only time he has to pause is when he's _sure_ that he's so close that he's going to die, because his cock is throbbing and aching and he wishes, briefly, that he wasn't wearing that condom so he could feel Niou getting even slicker inside because of how he's dripping in him. Yagyuu exhales a ragged breath, grunting when he lurches up to grab at the headboard of his bed for leverage, folding Niou up even further when he shoves in deep. 

 

Well, that’ll do it.

 

Niou’s breath seizes in his chest, and his legs strain, his neck strains, his back arches, and he’s so, so done.

 

Like this, Yagyuu can get even deeper in him, and he takes every fucking advantage of it. With every deep slam inside him, Niou lets out a hoarse whine, squeezing his eyes shut, hands trembling too hard to even scratch anymore. 

 

He likes sex in a lot of ways. Sometimes he likes to be petted and pampered and stroked, sometimes he likes to grind up slow and easy and filthy, and sometimes he likes to be shoved down to the bed and fucked like a goddamn captive. It’s with a sound more like a whimper, a sob than anything that he finally lets himself come, shooting so far he can feel it hit his chin and cheek, his balls drawn up high between his legs as he ruts down shamelessly, wordlessly demanding even more. “Go,” he pleads hoarsely, even though Yagyuu’s already using him with no regard for his comfort, which is half of the reason he’s coming so hard with every brutal thrust.

 

The _worst_ thing is trying to hold out when Niou's coming, and Yagyuu can never look away to try and control himself. 

 

Instead, he's always caught up in the way that Niou twists and squirms and tightens up like he's _completely_ lost. It's a little better because his vision is fuzzy minus glasses, but it's still so _fucking_ distracting. He strangles a mindless groan, his thrusts uncaring, erratic when he fucks up into Niou now, hands grabbing at those thighs to shove Niou's legs back to better just _use him_. 

 

It doesn't take long after that, at least. 

 

Niou usually makes him come hard, but this is enough to make his back arch and bow, enough to make him gasp for air as he shakes with every aching throb from his cock. Yagyuu is pretty sure he's leaving bruises and claw marks alike down Niou's thighs, and he couldn't be prouder of that fact. "You're--ugh, fuck," Yagyuu incoherently mumbles, shuddering as he pulls out, grabbing at that stupid condom before he can just sag down into the bed and forget about it. "You're _already_ filthy," he manages to hoarsely whisper as he lurches up to shakily grab at Niou's chin, upending the condom onto his face as a slick, dripping mess. 

 

This is the kind of filth that Niou revels in. It’s fine when he can suck Yagyuu off or fuck him until they both come, but sometimes they go a little...farther. There’s something a little darker in Niou, he’s always known, and seeing it echoed in Yagyuu always makes him feel a little less like it’s a shadow, a little more like it’s a soft dark blanket.

 

Whatever, it’s hard to make sense of his thoughts when he’s this _wrecked_.

 

Niou lets his lips part, letting the mess drip over his face and into his mouth, blinking up through sticky eyelashes to look at Yagyuu. “Tell me,” he croaks, a shudder going all the way through his body, “what you’re thinking about right now.”

 

"That you're mine."

 

He should _probably_ be more embarrassed that those words come out as easily as they do, but he's all shaky and twitchy and ready to collapse and the more he looks at Niou's face covered in his come, the more Yagyuu is sure he said the right thing. He groans, and just slowly melts down onto Niou's chest. "You look…way too good." 

 

Niou should _not_ be so oddly touched at that statement. As it is, embarrassing as it is, he can even feel himself _blushing_. Fucking Christ, that’s embarrassing. Worse, even _worse_ , is the way his arms come up around Yagyuu, gently stroking his hair and shoulders. “Yeah. Yours. You’re too good for me to be anyone else’s.”

 

Yagyuu settles for a sort of pathetic, gurgling noise that he knows is dumb. He also knows it's dumb to like the way that Niou smells after sex, but to be fair, he's usually just _dumb_ around Niou and it's good. He grabs at one of the sheets, yanking it up and over them even though they're sticky and sweaty and just _gross_. "Shower in the morning. Don't move, you're good." 

 

“ _You’re_ good,” Niou mumbles rebelliously, and promptly falls asleep.

 


	11. Yukimura & Niou, Yagyuu & Niou

As per usual, Yukimura arrives earlier for practice than anyone else. Unlocking the clubhouse yields nothing unusual, and other than the continued aches and pains that seem to make up his life on a daily basis now, there's nothing to complain about. Except--

 

What _is_ all of that on the court?

 

Yukimura squints through the cage for a minute before slowly opening the gate and walking onto the courts themselves. Plants. Potted plants. Lots and lots of them, all oddly arranged across the tennis courts. His head tilts to the side. This seems ridiculous enough that it _might_ be an act associated with Atobe Keigo. Maybe. He's not terribly sure who else it would be. 

 

A note flutters down from...somewhere, though there’s nothing above. Written on it in simple type is the sentence, “ _Try looking from the roof_.”

 

"What in the world," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath, staring at the note in question before looking up and around to find where it came from.

 

Well, it's worth a try. The school isn't locked up, and while he isn't _terribly_ thrilled by this adventure (plants on his tennis courts? really? there's a time and a place!), he can't deny that it's sort of amusing, too…

 

A few flights of stairs later, and Yukimura finds himself on the nearest rooftop overlooking the courts. He trots over to the edge, leaning down…and blinks. 

 

_I'm sorry._

 

Who the _hell_ took the time to write that out with _potted plants?_ He leans over the railing, really trying to reconcile the fact that this happened…and how it happened. And why. Is he even reading it correctly? It's sort of unmistakable, but _still_. 

 

A familiar voice coughs discreetly, because kneeling like this with his head against the ground is difficult and uncomfortable, and he’s not going to do it for _that_ long. “I know you hate cut flowers,” Niou says to the ground, forehead pressed to the stone of the roof, hands at his sides.

 

Yukimura turns, stares, and…well, what's there to do but sigh?

 

Damn it all, but he still wants to be really, really angry. He feels like it's his right, but… "Did you do all of that yourself?" he wearily asks, turning around and leaning his back against the railing instead. 

 

Niou raises up slightly, just enough to pillow his chin on his arms, still resting his forearms on the ground. “Wouldn’t have meant anything if I had someone else do it.” Yukimura could give him a little credit for sensitivity, jeez.

 

"I'm not sure how much that statement means coming from someone who just lied to my face on the court," Yukimura darkly points out, folding his arms over his chest. 

 

Niou sits up onto his heels, then leans back, legs contorting oddly to accommodate his height. “Hey. Boss. You know I didn’t mean to make you upset. I--shit, I was just—” He rubs a hand back through his hair, frustrated, making the crunchy spikes stand on end. “You’re so stressed, and you stopped laughing at my jokes. I thought...ugh, it was stupid anyway, Yagyuu told me it was. I was already getting them for real when that car backfired anyway.”

 

"Then why didn't you just…" Yukimura trails off, just as frustrated, and shoves off of the railing to walk closer. "I _like_ being able to play against someone that doesn't get the yips! I would have liked it if you had taken games from me-- _anything_ would have been better than you lying to me like that." Reflex makes him want to reach out and grab Niou's hair and crunch it in his hand a little bit, but he stops himself, withdrawing his hand with a firm set of his jaw. "I was _trying_ to see how much I'd really recovered, but you just made me feel like I hadn't at all. You're really dumb sometimes, Niou." 

 

“Yeah,” Niou admits freely. “And I’m sorry.” 

 

He looks up, something less cagey than usual in his eyes, and then swallows hard. “It’s...don’t take this the wrong way, I know it’s been hard as hell for you, but...it’s been hard for the people that love you, the last year. It’s...hard.”

 

Niou doesn’t like it when things are too hard. There are some people that like to seek out challenges. Niou vaguely likes winning, but not enough to make a big deal over. Seeing a vibrant, lively young man that he cares a whole lot about slowly dying in the hospital was too much of a challenge, thanks, and he doesn’t want any more right now. 

 

He looks down, unable to meet Yukimura’s eyes when he says the next part. “I see you running around the court,” he says quietly, “proving that you’re all better. And you’re in pain, a lot of it, and the harder you try, the more you win, and the happier you get, and the more you’re hurting yourself. I did a stupid, shitty thing, boss. But you didn’t look like you were gonna rip the staples out of your spine when you thought I had the yips.”

 

Yukimura wants to file at least a dozen complaints with everything that Niou's said, but it's pretty hard to when Niou won't even look at him. 

 

With one long, heaving exhale, Yukimura slowly flops down, folding himself up on the concrete in front of Niou. "You were in my hospital room even more than Sanada. You cut class to keep me company. I figured you probably didn't think much of that because you'd cut class either way, but…I was still really grateful for that, you know?" 

 

He reaches out again, this time giving into the urge to tug at a strand of Niou's hair. "You know how much I like you, right? And how much we get one another? Sometimes, I felt like you just… _got it_ , even more than Sanada did. That's why I was so upset when you pulled this stunt. I'm not going to apologize for pushing myself like I do, but I just thought…you'd _get it_ better. I don't care if I have to rip out a few staples in order to win. I _hear_ that you were just…trying to take care of me, and make me feel better, but I've _got_ to go out and play right now, even if it means I'm hurting a little. Maybe that's selfish, but I need to be selfish right now. Okay?"  

 

“Yeah. Okay.” Niou looks up, a wry smile twisting his face asymmetrically. “If it helps, you were in top fucking form yesterday. Seigaku doesn’t stand a damn chance. Not against you. I was just...I dunno, riding the wave, I guess. I wanted it to go faster. Got impatient. Liked seeing you smile.” And not that it will say much more than he already has, but he inclines his head again, muttering, “And I’m _sorry_.”

 

"I'm going to make Sanada draw 'patience' all over your face," Yukimura very seriously threatens, digging his hand a little into Niou's hair. Crunchy as usual, just how he likes it. "You're going to have to make it up to me somehow. I had just played a match against Echizen Ryouma--do you know how hard it is not to think that he was just faking it, too?" 

 

“That brat?” Niou snorts, actually allowing Yukimura to pet him without ducking away, butting his head against that hand. Yagyuu thinks it’s weird when he does that, but Yagyuu listens to foreign language tapes in his spare time, so whatever. “He wasn’t faking it. He fucking hates losing. How bad did you kick his ass?” There’s no question in his mind or in his voice that Yukimura had won.

 

Petting Niou is all kinds of therapeutic now that he's less angry. Yukimura settles down more, heaving a sigh as he slowly kneads against the other boy's scalp. "Well, we didn't get to finish because he had the yips. I was definitely winning handily, but…you're _sure_ that he wouldn't fake it?" _I didn't get a chance to bring this back up with Sanada for his opinion because I didn't want him to scold me for being in Tokyo in the middle of the night_ is something that really should be understood from the whole of this conversation. 

 

“He threw a fit when Sanada beat him,” Niou slurs, eyes half-lidded with the sensation of Yukimura’s fingernails on his scalp. “Didn’t shake his hand, hissing and spitting like a fucking cat. Ran off to lick his wounds, man, he’s a pissy little thing. He thinks he’s so damn cool.”

 

"He certainly thought he was really cool," Yukimura mutters, rolling his eyes. Something unclenches in his chest at that knowledge, though, and he sags forward, butting his head up against Niou's. "Okay. I'm not mad at you anymore. The flowers looked good, too." 

 

A weight lifts from Niou’s chest, and he nuzzles happily against Yukimura’s head. “Took forever,” he admits. “I kept having to look up the kanji, who uses kanji to write ‘I’m sorry?’ Fucking loser asshole Yagyuu told me it would look better in kanji than hiragana.”

 

"You could've written it in hiragana. I wouldn't've minded." Yukimura flops his head forward to hook it over Niou's shoulder. "You have to help me get all of them off the court, though. And then plant them at home. They belong in my garden." 

 

“I,” Niou says very seriously, twining his fingers with Yukimura’s, “will do all of that once it is dark. Not in the sun. God, no.”

 

"But we have to _practice_ today, and I don't want the plants to get hurt sitting on the court," Yukimura protests. He frowns, wheels turning in his head, and reluctantly, _very_ reluctantly, he says: "Maybe because of the ranking tournament, I should give everyone a break today, go out for lunch instead. Yakiniku or ramen or something…"

 

That causes an unaccustomed ache in Niou’s chest, and he sighs, flopping down on his back to look up at the sky. “God, I remember those days. Like after finals last year, shit. I’ve never seen three men eat what Marui put away that day, man. Heh, remember Akaya dropping the sauce, and Sanada actually just _laughed_ instead of yelling?”

 

Those days seem pretty long ago now, even if it was barely a year.

 

When _was_ the last time that Sanada had laughed? 

 

"Yakiniku it is." Yukimura hauls himself to his feet, ignoring almost every fiber in his body that screams _nope, getting up is effort, just lie down and start sunning like a cat on the roof with Niou_. The other fibers scream _but Nationals are a week away,_ but ah, if he doesn't commit now…ugh, Sanada has eyedrops because he _cries_. "But don't tell anyone when they show up for practice. Everyone still needs to think that I'm in raging overlord mode. I especially like the way that Akaya scuttles."

 

“Puri.” 

 

That’s as good as a confirmation, to anyone who knows him as well as Yukimura does.

 

"But you," Yukimura firmly continues, jabbing a finger in Niou's direction, "are still going to be doing _so much_ gardening later. Get up and come on, I'm going to tell you about flowers before anyone else gets here." 

 

“I already _know_ about flowers, that one’s pink and that one’s white and aren’t they all shemales?”

 

"Oh my _god_ , Niou, rude. You can't talk to them like that. They're just _children_." 

 

“What? I didn’t say I wanted to bone them or anything! That would be all weird, and I’m pretty sure it’d leave a rash.”

 

Yukimura grabs him by the wrist, firmly dragging him to the stairs. "You're the worst. Even joking about it is gross, and I'm going to get mad at you again. You have to be _nice_ to them-- _sweet_ , even--" He leans in, eyes glinting, grip tightening so that Niou can't get away. "You know, like how you are with _Yaaagyuu_." 

 

Niou twists, skipping sideways down the stairs, getting one foot on the bannister, but Yukimura’s hand is strong. “You should be nicer to him,” he grunts, making use of his double-jointed shoulder to turn into odd contortions. “He’s way less creepy about you than he used to be, honest.” _And way more mine._

 

"Well, I haven't gotten any poems in my locker lately, but I have a feeling that has more to do with the fact I've been _away for eight months_ ," Yukimura snidely retorts. He makes a face at Niou's contorting--gross, really weird--before giving up and letting him go. "You're _really_ into him. Did you confess and everything?" 

 

Niou makes a face, gagging a little. “ _Gross_.” Not a ‘no.’ Especially when he’s got so many marks from last night all over him, and Yagyuu had been so _good_ , so sweet and _enthusiastic_ \--

 

Yukimura's eyebrows raise. "You _did_ , didn't you. Oooor, is it just about how good the sex is?" He doesn't like to particularly think about how Yagyuu isn't a virgin and he still is, but, well.

 

 _“You’re mine,”_ Yagyuu says in his memory of last night, and the flush on Niou’s cheeks is fucking embarrassing. “It’s really fucking good,” he admits, but the worst part is… 

 

He slams his back into a wall, sliding slowly down with a groan. “It’s not even about the sex,” he admits miserably.

 

Yukimura stops and stares back at him. "I was _joking_. Wait, you're _serious?_ Are you blushing? You _are!_ Ma~sa~ko," he openly teases, darting back and kneeling in front of Niou to squish his cheeks, "you're like an innocent little maiden and everything, what kind of horrible poetry does he write you?" 

 

Niou hisses a little, drawing his knees up under his chin. “Ugh, it’s fucking gross,” he growls. He hasn’t even had his best friend to talk to about it, because, well, Yukimura’s problems have always been worse. “I’m _not_ an innocent little maiden, you wanna hear about the freaky shit he did last night?”

 

"Yes." Perhaps a little too much, because knowing that other people have functioning sex drives and supposedly a lot of fun bodes well for the near future. Yukimura scoots closer, beaming. "Because until you prove otherwise, I'm assuming you're an innocent little maiden that likes it when Yaaagyuu takes care of you and pampers you like a girl." 

 

Niou glares daggers, then leans forward and says, without a hint of a blush, “He shoved my feet up behind my head and fucked me deep, then pulled off the condom and dumped it on my face.”

 

Well. That's…not enough to make him blush or anything. "You're lying. Yagyuu's way too much of a prude. He freaks out when you _lean_ on him in public." 

 

Niou grins, and reaches for his phone. “He’s different in private.” He thumbs through a few galleries, then lands on one marked “School - Exam Notes,” flipping through to one of himself flashing a lazy peace sign, chest covered in love bites, face covered in cum, Yagyuu’s elegant fingers and cock just barely visible. “I have evidence if you want to see it.”

 

"Gimme." Yukimura snatches the phone away, not really believing it until he actually looks and--oh. _Oh._ He swallows hard, shoving the phone back into Niou's grasp. "Point taken. But you just said it's not about the sex, so don't try to hide behind…really good reference pictures for some seriously lewd poses just because you know that's distracting." 

 

Niou flips the phone away, relaxing back against the wall. “Big talk from a guy who can’t even get his prude boyfriend to second base,” he mutters. At least Yukimura knows how he deflects (well and often) when he doesn’t want to talk about _feelings_.

 

Yukimura scowls back at him, but allows said deflection for now. Maybe he's been dying for a chance to talk about _guys_ with someone else that's good at talking about guys--which is basically Niou, and only Niou. Yanagi makes it weird (weirder now, because of the Akaya thing). "It's not a matter of not being able to get him there! If I wanted to, I could get him there just fine. _And_ third base. Things like _that_ , even," he adds, jabbing a finger in the direction of Niou's phone. 

 

“Uh huh.” Niou leans forward, folding his hands, resting his chin on them. “You know, the problem with waiting for something special, boss, is that you miss out on all the times between then and now. I’d have thought...well, you know, you of all people should know that you can’t always wait forever for the right thing to come along. Never know about how long life will be, right?”

 

"Now _you're_ making it weird," Yukimura bemoans, leaning back onto one hand. "Do you think I haven't thought of all of that? Look, it's…ugh, _one_ , and _don't_ repeat this, I'll kill you, do you know how badly all those medications mess things up? I used to think about it _all the time_ and now I'm lucky if I can make a joke about his stupid fundoshi once a week. And two, it's…he…it _needs_ to be special now." He glances away, face flushing a little. "He built us a cabin. On a _mountain_. We're going after Nationals." 

 

“ _Gross_.” Niou can’t help but grin anyway, though it turns a little flabbergasted. “When the hell did he have the _time_? Between all the practices and making us run and getting his perfect grades, when the hell did he…”

 

"I don't know! Ahhh, I want to just…" Yukimura whimpers, burying his face into one hand. "This is why he was always so awful about buying me things. He was saving up to do this instead. I'm trash, I'm the worst, I had _no idea_." 

 

“He did it for you,” Niou points out. “He’d have been upset if you _did_ notice, dumbass. Are you gonna be okay up there in the thin air?”

 

Yukimura reaches over and half-heartedly punches Niou's shoulder. "I'm not going to die that easily! I want him to throw me over his shoulder and drag me up the mountain like a wild man kidnapping his bride. Is that too weird?" 

 

“Not for anyone who’s known you for a while,” Niou assures him. “Then it’s just kind of par for the course. I’d have thought you wanted to be his perfect Samurai bride, though.”

 

"Mm, same difference. He says he's going to catch me fish wearing nothing but a fundoshi. Can you _imagine?_ " Yukimura sighs out, eyes glazing. "I just really want it to be special, you know? Especially…" He hesitates, then flops back a little bit, glancing upward. "When I was still in the hospital--and it was a really bad day--he told me that if I _wanted_ to go ahead and do it, we could. But I knew he was just doing that because he thought I was going to die, and if that isn't enough to kill a hard-on, I don't know what is. I really _wish_ I could be as cool and casual about it like you are." 

 

“I dunno, the thought of my imminent death gets me hard sometimes,” Niou says, completely serious. “If anything, I’d have thought it was those heart monitors and stuff that killed your boner.” His words are casual, but his hand reaches out to curl around Yukimura’s, squeezing firmly. “I’m not judging, just surprised. I always figured Sanada was the sentimental one, but fuck, doing it in a gurney wouldn’t have been any good at all.”

 

"The heart monitors were kind of fun, but the death thing wasn't," Yukimura grouses, even as he squeezes Niou's hand back in a way that _might_ be slightly clingy. "I don't know how I got so sentimental. He's rubbing off on me. Well, I _wish_ he was. Maybe in a couple of weeks. Anyway, I've spilled my guts now, it's your turn to be embarrassing. Are you two going to get married on your island or something?" 

 

“I _hate_ you,” Niou says, without any real feeling behind it. It’s easier when he doesn’t have to look at Yukimura’s face, and he sighs. “I dunno. I want to. I mean, not that, but I want to be...the two of us, you know? Like you guys are. But I can’t do that to him, so I don’t ask, and then I get mad because I’m not getting what I didn’t ask for.”

 

"…What do you mean, you can't 'do that to him'?" Yukimura echoes, his brow furrowing in confusion. "You're not _doing_ anything to him. You make it sound like you're murdering him or something, that's weird." 

 

This is a stressful conversation. Niou reaches into a pocket, and pulls out a couple crumpled cigarettes, stuffing one in his mouth and lighting it with a match. “Maybe I’m too good a dude,” he mutters, though he’s sure he isn’t. “Shit, you know how he is. He’s so _serious_ about so many things, he wouldn’t...I’m not sure he could pull off the lie. His dad’s a doctor, he’s the older kid, he can’t just be a homo.”

 

Yukimura settles for a brief, polite cough, his only protest about the cigarettes this time around. "Okay, but he clearly _is_. He had a crush on me before he even joined the tennis team. He's _dating_ you." He pauses. "Right? Like, you asked him out and everything and you're actually dating?" 

 

Niou ignores that. He takes a long drag, blowing it out in the opposite direction from Yukimura, and stares at the sky. “He can fake it. He’s good at that. If he doesn’t have something else to keep him to that, he can fake it for long enough. He wants to be a _doctor_ , man. He wants to work with _kids_. In _Japan_. You can’t do that if everyone knows you’re...unmarried. I’m just looking out for him.”

 

Yukimura reaches over and smacks the side of his head. "He's not gonna do that for awhile, though! We're not even in high school yet. Why can't you whisk him off to your island and be weird and really, really homo with him all you want? He's obviously really into you. He follows you around like a puppy, and always wants to do stuff with you, no matter how strange it is."

 

It _sounds_ easy. Niou’s pretty sure it isn’t. But Yukimura doesn’t know how rewarding it is to see Yagyuu loosen up, to see the posture of his shoulders change, to see the glasses come off and the contacts go in, to see the stuffy student council president lose his cool and forget that he’s not supposed to misbehave. 

 

Niou’s never had to work for anyone before. It’s weird that he likes it now.

 

He stabs the cigarette out on the roof, grinding it slowly down until the spark dies completely. “I know he wants to. I _did_ take him home, and it was great. Fuck, Sanada’s parents are cool, but would you want to be the reason they kicked him out if they weren’t? Even if you’ve got money, he’d still, I mean, he’d miss his folks, right? But that’s different, because everyone knows you’re worth losing a family for.” Probably a little too raw and honest, but it’s been a year since Niou’s had his sounding board.

 

Yukimura's face falls, and he reaches out, tugging at Niou's rat tail. "Don't be dumb. You're not going to be the reason anything like that happens, first of all. You told me before that his parents like you, right? They probably like that you help him loosen up and act more _human_. That's because," he firmly adds before Niou can argue, "you're _really_ great. If Yagyuu's acting nervous about this like you are, it's because he's worried about the same stuff, and doesn't want to lose someone so awesome. Basically, you're both being dumb." 

 

Niou flops to the side and buries his face in Yukimura’s shoulder. “Yeah, you’re never allowed to leave again,” he mutters. “I’ll just set up in the bed next to you if you do.”

 

Yukimura wraps his arms firmly around the other boy, hauling him closer. "That'd be okay. I could stand to have some company." He sighs, and gives Niou's back a light rub. "You definitely never asked him out, did you." 

 

“Nope.” Niou finds it oddly comforting to have Yukimura’s slender arms around him. Inverse proportion to actual safety, maybe. “I mean, we go out, and we fuck nasty, and we hang out all the time, but I never asked him on a date, and he never asked me on one, and I know that’s what you’re talking about.”

 

"You should. If you really ask him out, then he's _really_ your boyfriend. I mean, I guess you could wait around for him to ask _you_ out, but he's kind of repressed…" Yukimura tilts his head back, thinking. "Mm. You should just go for it. Isn't it better to know what he really thinks than to just wait around and agonize? Plus, I'm really, really sure that he'd be into it. You _know_ he sits around and constantly wonders how he got someone as smart and hot and funny as you in _bed_." 

 

Niou swallows hard. His eyes burn a little, and he swallows hard on that, too. He buries his face in Yukimura’s side, and mutters almost unintelligibly, “Thanks, boss.” _Don’t leave again._

 

It’s easy to forget what having Yukimura back had meant to the team. They’d all felt like they’d been lonely, sure, but...how long has it been since tennis was honestly fun, the way it had been before? “I wouldn’t have joined the team,” Niou says abruptly. “If it was like this last year. Everyone all angry and stressed all the time, it’s not my thing.”

 

"I wouldn't have blamed you," Yukimura admits, rubbing a hand slowly through Niou's hair. "That's not my thing, either. I know I've been really high strung lately, and I'm sorry about that. It'll be okay, though, right? We're gonna win Nationals again. You and Yagyuu will be the number one doubles pair again--look, after you get that win, _that's_ when you should ask him out. I did that with Sanada, it worked really well!" 

 

Niou shrugs. “If he’s gonna say yes, he’s gonna say yes no matter when I ask him. I don’t need to wait for it to be special. Besides, we might lose, and then I’d have to wait for something better to come along and happen. Wasted time.”

 

"Well, fine. Don't make it dramatic. It's just more _fun_ when it's like that, I think." Yukimura scritches a hand against Niou's scalp. "But you're not allowed to avoid it for too much longer, then. Do you need to practice on me? Or is that too weird?" 

 

Niou rotates his neck a bit, thoroughly enjoying the scritching. “Mm, it’s not like I don’t know how to do it. I just didn’t want to ruin his whole life. If I’m gonna ruin his whole life, I can at least figure it out.”

 

"Uh huh. Then I want to hear all about it later." Yukimura scritches for a bit longer before pulling his hand away and giving Niou's back a thump. "Okay, up with you, though. I bet everyone's here, and I want to scare them before telling them that yakiniku is the plan instead." He pauses, and doesn't pull away just yet. "So long as everything else is good. I mean, I'm not going anywhere either way, so if something isn't good later, you can tell me then, too." 

 

Niou wavers for a moment...but everything is good right now. Shit happens later, or maybe it won’t. For now, everything is good, and Yukimura feels like his old self. “I’m sure everything will suck at some point. All the more reason to terrify the children and stuff our faces with meat.”

 

Relief is as clear as day on Yukimura's face, and he nods, hauling himself to his feet. "Yeah, good. And later, gardening!" 

 

At least he's kind enough not to insist on daytime gardening. Niou should never claim that he isn't merciful. 

 

~

 

Yukimura is _never_ so merciful. 

 

Yakiniku, barely a week before Nationals when they could be practicing instead? Unheard of. But after scaring the entire team of regulars into thinking practice would go on for an extra two hours, Yukimura announced that 'practice' would instead continue at the best yakiniku restaurant in all of Kanagawa. 

 

The entire team looks ready to collapse from relief, truth be told.

 

"It's my treat!" Yukimura insists, looking so very, very like his old self, even if he moves more stiffly. He has his hair swept back in two places, his bangs pinned back and the rest of his hair in what almost serves as a ponytail in the ridiculous heat of summer, and he's beaming as he settles down at his table, flanked by Sanada and Yanagi as per usual. "Don't hold back in ordering whatever you want!"

 

Jackal looks concerned that Marui is going to take that very seriously. Niou also looks a little too excited, and Yagyuu is pretty sure that there's going to be a showdown between Sanada and Kirihara in the near future. 

 

"Yanagi-sempai, I want to sit at _your_ table!"

 

"This is the grown-up table," Yukimura scolds, smacking Kirihara's knee when he tries to plop down. "Go sit with Niou and Yagyuu."

 

"But--"

 

"Go! Renji, if I get squid, you have to help me eat it." 

 

"When did we get babysitting duty?" Yagyuu wearily asks, but it's too late, Kirihara is _there_ , and sulkily glowering. Ah, yes. It's so clear now: babysitting duty established the moment that _Mommy_ wanted lunch with Daddy and Strange Aunt. "Is this his way of punishing you still, Niou-kun?" 

 

"Why would I be a punishment?" Kirihara demands. "My mom says I'm a gift!"

 

Niou’s eyes widen at that, and he leans back slightly, asking Yagyuu in a whisper that’s obviously (to anyone but Kirihara) meant to be heard, “She actually told him? I thought she and the Captain agreed that we were going to wait until after Nationals to let him know about that!” 

 

He doesn’t need to ask Yagyuu to go along with him. Yagyuu always does. Fuck, maybe Yukimura is right. Maybe he does need to ask the big loser on a date.

 

Yagyuu has no idea what Niou has planned, but it's _probably_ going to funny. Maybe. It's just Kirihara, after all… "Perhaps she got tired of waiting," he conspiratorially whispers back, and Kirihara's eyes get narrower by the second.

 

"What are you two talking about? What about my mom?!" 

 

Ah, yes. This _is_ going to be good. 

 

Niou bites his lip, the look of discomfort easy to pull off. He gives Yagyuu a grimace, and shakes his head. “Sorry, kid. They made us swear not to tell. Man, sorry, I thought your mom had brought it up, we can’t be the ones to spill the beans. Shit, I’d have thought for sure that someone else—” A quick look to the ‘grown-up table’ shows who he means by that— “would have told you by now. They’ve got to be waiting until the time is right.”

 

Kirihara looks rapidly between the so-called 'grown-up table', and then back to Niou. "You brought it up now, Niou-sempai," he hisses, smacking a hand down onto the table. "You _have_ to tell me! That's the rule! Yanagi-sempai says I shouldn't let people lead me on and you're definitely leading me on by not finishing topics that you bring up--"

 

"Perhaps it would be best to just tell him, Niou-kun," Yagyuu solemnly says, pushing up his glasses. "He _does_ have a right to know." 

 

The sigh Niou lets out is familiar to Yagyuu--and to anyone who’s been caught in one of his pranks before, except Kirihara, who somehow manages to stay oblivious every single time. He looks around, ostensibly to make sure no one is listening, and leans forward. “Listen, I’m only telling you because Yaaaaagyuu over here thinks it’s the right thing to do, so you can’t tell anyone, okay? Swear to me.”

 

"I swear!" Kirihara whispers, leaning forward with his eyes wide. "Sometimes, I think you guys are the only ones who take me seriously, you know? Even Yanagi-sempai is always hiding stuff from me, this proves it!"

 

Yagyuu barely manages to strangle a snort of laughter. Sometimes, it's just a little too much when it's Kirihara, the one that they fool again and again and again. 

 

Niou almost feels bad. Almost. It’s just too _easy_ , which is incidentally what Yukimura always says in reprimanding him, that it can’t possibly be so much fun to torment Kirihara when it’s so easy. He’s wrong, though. That really doesn’t impact his enjoyment at all. “All right.” He leans forward even farther, and announces in a dramatic whisper, “You _are_ a gift. Your mother is giving you to the Tennis club, to Yukimura specifically, after Nationals.”

 

Yagyuu thinks that he's going to stop breathing in his attempts to not laugh and keep a straight face. 

 

Kirihara stares long and hard before slowly slumping back into his chair. "But--I thought that was just a thing she was saying--like, you know, mom's do and stuff--"

 

"Think about how Yukimura-kun always says you're from his tennis uterus," Yagyuu _somehow_ calmly puts in. "That's because he's your mother now."

 

"What?! No way!"

 

"It's true," Yagyuu continues without batting an eye. "He's your mother now. How do you think you got into Rikkai?" 

 

"My dad went there as a kid!"

 

"Your grades are still too bad for that to help, I'm afraid. It's because the tennis club funded it--because you're Yukimura's." 

 

Kirihara just sort of whimpers. "Niou-sempai--is all of that true?!"

 

“I wasn’t going to tell you all _that_ ,” Niou says with a sigh, giving Yagyuu a look that says very clearly that now Kirihara Knows Too Much. “Look, it’s not like you’re never going to see your mom again, or anything,” he says, consolingly, patting Kirihara’s hand. “You’ll still be able to see her every other weekend for a couple hours! As long as you win at Nationals, of course. Maybe you’ll play Fuji again!”

 

Kirihara's eyes start watering.

 

"Niou-kun! You shouldn't have told him that part," Yagyuu hisses, smacking his arm lightly. "Now _you've_ told him too much." 

 

"D-does this mean Sanada-fukubuchou is…is my _dad_ now?"

 

“Hey, it could be worse,” Niou says, rubbing his arm and shrugging, reaching across to tug a lock of dark silky hair. “Besides, Yukimura’s going to let you be Captain next year, as long as you’re a good child for him. Don’t be mean to your new parents. It’s not like they can have a child on their own, you know? Too many man-parts.”

 

Kirihara sniffles.

 

"It'll be fine, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu reassures him. "Just remember, don't tell them about this. We weren't supposed to have said a word, after all--"

 

"Yanagi-sempaaiiii! _P-please_ let me sit with you!"

 

"Ah, there he goes," Yagyuu mildly comments, watching as Kirihara launches himself back over to the 'grown-up table' and clings to one of Yanagi's legs. "You don't suppose he'll really say anything, do you?" 

 

Niou starts snort-giggling, sliding back in his chair and waggling his eyebrows at Yagyuu. “Puri.” 

 

He looks over at the other table, at where Yanagi is attempting to soothe his charge and doubtless saying the wrong things about _hush now don’t worry we’ll always take care of you_ , and laughs a little more. He reaches out, hooking a finger in Yagyuu’s collar and urging him forward. “Gimme a piece of meat. Feed it to me.”

 

"Niou-kun," Yagyuu attempts, slightly exasperated even as he reaches for his chopsticks. "I am _very_ sure that you can feed yourself. And you don't like the way I cook it most of the time." 

 

Niou sticks out his tongue, then grabs the tongs, flipping a smallish hunk of meat onto the grill before saucing the other side long before it makes sense to do so. “Wasn’t about not being able to feed myself. I wanted you to do something sexy for me.” It’s a bit bluntly honest, for him, but Yukimura usually gives good advice. Maybe this at least will start a conversation.

 

"In _public?_ " is Yagyuu's reflexively hushed whisper. He ducks his head, leaning away with a reflexive upward push of his glasses. "I don't see what's so sexy about feeding you _meat_. Meat that you always put too much sauce on, I might add…"

 

 _Yeah_ , Niou thinks sourly at Yukimura, who even now is loudly declaring that of _course_ Kirihara is the son that came from his tennis uterus (to general wailing from Kirihara). _He’s practically gagging to fucking date me._ He flips the meat (too late), and grabs another with his tongs, ripping a piece of it off with his teeth. “You’d like it if I did something sexy for you, I bet. I got a maid outfit.”

 

Yagyuu drops the piece of meat that he was about to set onto the grill. "You _what?_ " This is a much better conversation. Niou is always much better at being sexy than he is, and that's a fact. "That…um…what are you going to do with that, exactly." 

 

Niou chews, and leans back, putting his feet up under the table. “Maybe clean some stuff.” His heart is thudding way too fast for just talking to _Yagyuu_ , for fuck’s sake. This is such a dumb thing to be nervous about. “Maybe just walk around in garters and a short skirt for my boyfriend.” It takes every ounce of determination he has to keep from showing any anxiety at that sentence.

 

"Oh." Yagyuu swallows hard. He's better about the next piece of meat, and it actually makes it to the grill. "That…ah. Would be nice. You don't have to clean anything, though. Just…walk around." He clears his throat a little. "You always are a lot better at being sexy. You have better ideas. Much better."

 

Niou breathes. It takes slightly more effort than usual, but it’s a hell of a lot more rewarding, too. 

 

Then he loses control and turns, leaning up to whisper low and filthy in Yagyuu’s ear, “I’m gonna make you lose control in a second. You get to snap my garters and distract me from work...Hiroshi-bocchan.” He _might_ follow that up with a quick dart out of his tongue against the lobe of Yagyuu’s ear.

 

Yagyuu isn't sure about the sound that escapes his throat. It's probably some weird whimper-gasp-squeak, and it definitely makes him start to slide and slouch down into his seat, practically melting underneath the table. "You….you can't call me that in public," he manages, somehow, though his dick is _really_ disagreeing. _Call me that all the time, more like._

 

“Sure I can.” Niou adjusts himself discreetly, then stands up from the pillow seat. He leans down and whispers, “Single-stall bathroom. Follow in two minutes,” then loudly makes an excuse about going to order more pitchers of cola before slipping into the bathroom. What the hell, he lights the incense in there as well. Might as well make it romantic.

 

Two minutes. Two minutes. _Two minutes._

 

Yagyuu makes it until a minute forty five until he's up and heading straight to the bathroom.

 

"You, too, Yagyuu?" is Yukimura's brief tease before he's sighing and swatting at Kirihara. "Stop crying already. Sanada, make him stop crying! Rikkai's next captain can't be a crybaby!"

 

Yagyuu's face flushes hot, and he darts inside. 

 

Incense. Okay. That's a choice. He breathes in deep, trying to calm himself. _Hiroshi-bocchan_ kind of comes floating back, though, and that ruins any and all ideas of _calm_. 

 

Yagyuu barely makes it through the door before Niou shoves him back against it, flipping the lock shut as he leans up to suck Yagyuu’s earlobe into his mouth. His leg comes up between Yagyuu’s, grinding there, and he groans, “I could barely wait for you, I already started jacking off. You might have to punish me, _Hiroshi-bocchan_. I’ve been a naughty maid.” It’ll be better with the costume. Whatever.

 

Shit, shit, shit.

 

The thing is that he's _usually_ got enough endurance to piss Niou off. He's _not_ fast about coming, and that's usually way more of a curse than a gift. 

 

Something about that damned maid thing and _Hiroshi-bocchan_ , though--

 

Yagyuu just groans, sags back against the wall as his hands reach out and sink into the curve of Niou's ass, grabbing hard and yanking him close. That's _about_ all it takes, that and one needy, desperate grind against Niou's thigh, because he's hard as a rock and who _knew_ that was going to push such a good button. "Sorry," he gasps out, his eyes rolling back into the back of his head, wishing dimly that he'd at least had the brains to take his dick out because now he's going to be a mess, but fuck it, who _cares_. "S-sorry--shit, Niou-kun, who _said_ you could be so…so…" _Hot when you say my name like that._

 

Inwardly, Niou groans, because he’s either going to have to forego sex completely (and he _loves_ bathroom sex), or this is going to take forever. Yagyuu is usually about as far from a hair trigger as a man can get, but apparently he’s found a button.

 

Eh, he’s horny and there’s not much going on out there. He can indulge Yagyuu for a minute, especially after he’d barely blinked at the whole ‘boyfriend’ thing.

 

He slips down to his knees, undoing the buttons of those crisp trousers, and turns some of the fabric inside out. “You’ve made a mess,” he breathes, and drags his tongue over it, tasting the salty-sour-musk that is Yagyuu and feeling his dick throb. “I wouldn’t be much of a maid if I didn’t clean that up, would I?” He runs the flat of his tongue over Yagyuu’s softening cock, feeling the soft skin brushing over his lips, driving him crazy.

 

Yagyuu is pretty sure that his knees are about to give out. He shudders, sinking back against the wall, clinging to it with one hand as his other hand desperately clings to Niou's hair, digging in close to his scalp. Even when he _just_ came, his cock seems pretty intent on getting hard again--ugh, too soon, too fast, _fuck_ , he's dizzy. "God," he groans, kneading his fingers down the back of Niou's neck. "You'd…you'd make a _really_ good maid, Niou-kun--"

 

 _Probably not,_ Niou thinks in good humor, but having Yagyuu grabbing and hungry for him is way better than whatever maids do all day, probably. He makes a show of mouthing over the cloth until he’s sucked off everything he can, then letting his tongue flick delicately over the head of Yagyuu’s cock. “Pace yourself, Hiroshi-bocchan. You can use me as long as you need to.” His voice is sultry, breathy, and not especially feminine. Yagyuu’s gay enough that this’ll work better than any real female impersonation anyway.

 

It's not particularly manly to whimper like he is, but damn it all, Niou's tongue is _good_. It's enough to make his eyes cross, and for him to clutch even tighter to Niou's hair, and ah--shit, he's probably going to pass out for real. "Want to fuck you in here," he manages to rasp all the same. "However…however you want. No punishment, just--you're good, really good--"

 

Niou swallows his cock down for that, all the way to the root, just to prove that he can, before drawing off slowly with a pop, leaving the head slick and shiny as a trail of saliva dangles from his lip, connected to Yagyuu’s cock. He stands slowly, arching and rubbing against Yagyuu like a cat in heat, hands grabby at the front of his shirt. “I fucking want you in me,” he rasps urgently. He hops up on the closed toilet seat, drawing his knees up to his chest, spreading his legs to show off just how hard and dripping his own cock is. His eyes are dark, chest heaving as he breathes, “Show me how lucky I am that my boyfriend has such a big dick, hmm?” He might be using the word on purpose. It might be getting him off.

 

 _Boyfriend_. Second time that word has come out of Niou's mouth in the span of half an hour. There's a reason for that, probably, but Yagyuu can't think of it at the moment. He can barely think beyond the way his cock throbs, and he has to take himself in hand, smearing his fingers along the slick mess of Niou's saliva that's been left behind, which would make it a lot easier to just jerk off to the way Niou's _waiting_ for him. 

 

"Lube?" is all Yagyuu can think to ask for, especially when he's already moving, dragging a hand up the back of one thigh, digging his fingers in. It actually always surprises him how good Niou feels, and once he starts touching him, he just can't get enough of it. 

 

“Already in.” Niou raises his legs, walking his feet up Yagyuu’s chest to his shoulders, spreading his legs wider. “In the not-really-two-minutes you kept me waiting. I got bored, thought you might want to just do it.”

 

In all honesty, he hadn’t prepped himself so much as “squirted the tube up his own ass,” but it’s essentially the same thing. Maybe. He’s slick, that’s for sure. “Just shove it in. Might want to cover my mouth right at first.” He reaches up, tugging Yagyuu down on top of him, needing all of a sudden to touch his skin.

 

What is there to say to that but "Yeah, okay" in a sort of rushed, breathy, stupidly eager way, especially when Niou is grabbing at him like that. He just _has_ to kiss Niou, especially when he's right there and his dick is that hard and that seems like a really good idea because Niou's mouth is always so, so much softer than he expects it to be. "Don't want any interruptions," Yagyuu breathlessly agrees, mouthing a wet, messy kiss over his lips before he covers it with his hand, _knowing_ Niou's going to be noisy the moment he puts his cock in him--and he almost is, too, considering how hot and slick and _tight_ Niou still is, just with that first, initial _push_.

 

Niou squeezes his eyes shut, and they _burn_. He’s always tight, and it’s always too much, but this is kind of ridiculous. He’s grateful for the hand over his own mouth, and scream-sobs into it for a moment, before he can get control of himself. God, it’s still _good_ , even if it’s so tight that he trembles, unable to do anything at this angle except take it, letting Yagyuu’s cock pop inside and stuff him full. He blinks away a couple tears, sucking in ragged breaths through his nose before his head tips back in pleasure more intense, more complete than most he’s ever felt.

 

It feels so much _better_ when he’s not ready. It hurts, and his ass is going to ache all of tomorrow, but Niou wouldn’t trade this for the world. The prickling, searing pain melds with the shock of pleasure that comes with each thrust, and it only takes half a dozen brutal slams of Yagyuu’s hips before Niou’s coming all over his own shirt, staring up at Yagyuu like that dumb bespectacled face is the only thing he ever wants to see.

 

"God, you really were _ready_ , weren't you," Yagyuu groans into his neck, his own breath hot and staggering and making his glasses fog up whenever he exhales. Niou's _way_ too tight, tight enough to make his eyes sort of blur at the edges, but it's good, especially when he's in so deep that their skin slaps together and he can _feel_ the way that Niou aches underneath him, all the way down to his toes. 

 

Niou's not as noisy now, which is good and bad in its own way. Yagyuu does take the opportunity to wrap a hand up in his hair, to yank his head back and bite at his throat, thoughtlessly marking him up, not really thinking about  how they're going to have to go back out there pretty soon and everyone's going to _see_.

 

_Good for them, they can be jealous._

 

Yagyuu sees stars when he comes, gasping into Niou's neck, clinging to his sides and hips and his glasses are now somewhere on the floor, definitely knocked off somewhere in the process of everything. Niou is _so_ slick inside that his mind considers melting. He shouldn't be allowed to feel that good. 

 

Niou tries not to cling too much, with severely limited success. His fingers clutch at Yagyuu’s shirt behind his neck, and he buries his face in the other boy’s chest, smelling clean crisp linen and just a bit of sweat. His legs tremble, and he actually has to use his legs to get them down, stiff and sore as they are. “Fuck,” he grunts, surprised to hear how wet his voice is. “Ugh, god, you’re the best fuck, you know that?” Maybe someday he’ll move again.

 

"Learned from the best," Yagyuu huffs out, giving up on pulling away just yet when Niou is literally fastened to him. He pats a hand out blindly around the floor to no avail, only to eventually find his glasses hanging from some of Niou's hair. All right then. "Are you going to need to sneak out the back after this, or…"

 

“I will if you want me to.” That’s a big concession coming from Niou, and hell, now that he feels great, it’s as good a time as any to do as Yukimura had instructed him. “Hey. I want to date you.”

 

Date. Date _him_. Ah. The multiple drops of 'boyfriend' must have been leading up to this. Yagyuu exhales slowly and lifts his head, frowning down at Niou. "But you could date anyone. No one wants to date me." 

 

“Yeah, well, I want to date you.” Niou swallows. This is so dumb and real, not like anything he can fake his way out of. He _hates_ that. But then he looks up at Yagyuu’s stupid face, and mutters, “We can keep it a secret, obviously. I know you don’t want your family finding out. You’re gonna be a doctor and everything.”

 

"But…no one ever wants to date me." That sounds pretty pathetic, but it's true. Yagyuu looks aside, shoves his glasses up, swallows hard--and yeah, it still keeps echoing in his head all the same. _Niou_ wants to date him. It doesn't really process. "I don't…I'm boring. Why would you want to date me?"

 

This is getting awkward, Niou thinks. He _thinks_ it’s awkward. Maybe it’s cute. Maybe it’s both. “I want to date you,” he repeats, as if he’s talking to a very slow child (that for some reason he wants to date). “I mean, I thought we already were. But I guess we’re not? Because you seem really surprised. Come on, it’ll be fun, we already hang out and fuck and everything.”

 

"…Looking back, I guess I thought we already were, too? I mean, because we had sex and everything, but…" Yagyuu hesitates, and looks down at Niou rather nervously. "Are you sure I didn't hit your head against the toilet or anything? I didn't think you were someone that wanted to make it…official." 

 

Niou scowls up at him. “I wanted to make this cute,” he informs Yagyuu, “or at least not really super awkward. I’m just gonna stake my claim if you’re gonna be weird about it. I’m gonna pee on you.” He definitely does not have issues with talking seriously about serious things.

 

"Please don't," Yagyuu hurriedly says, pulling back in the next instant. "You know how I am about bodily functions, Niou-kun, especially your territorial ones. I'll date you, just--none of that." It's actually weird how that makes his chest tighten up. Anxiety? Pleasure? Not sure, maybe both. 

 

Niou tries his best to look surly and not pleased, but doesn’t manage it too well. Instead, he lurches up and kisses Yagyuu, more softly than usual, and allows himself a little smile. “Deal. I didn’t want to do it by threatening you, you know. You left me no choice.” This is probably Not how Yukimura wanted him to do it.

 

Yagyuu nods, albeit a little shakily as that all actually processes. He rocks backwards, exhaling a long breath that he hopes is calming. "…We can keep it secret like you said, though? If my parents found out…they're not like your parents, Niou-kun." He hesitates before adding one more thing: "Are you still going to sleep with other people?"

 

Niou looks away, hopping off the toilet to grab his pants and wriggle back into them. “Nah. Everyone else is boring after you.” He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and raises an eyebrow. “Whoo, you got aggressive. Here, switch clothes with me, you always have your collar buttoned up. It’ll look weird if I have mine that way otherwise.”

 

It's hard not to feel a surge of satisfaction at hearing that. Everyone _else_ is boring? That's new, but good, and the idea that Niou wants to be with _him_ above everyone else…well, okay then. Yagyuu has no idea how he managed this, but it's good. "You bruise really easily, I can't help it," he says, even as he unbuttons his shirt and passes it over. 

 

Niou takes the shirt. He looks down at it, then looks up at Yagyuu, and sighs. “Everything else, too. Even the slow ones are gonna notice this way.” He strips off his pants, then rolls his socks up, pulling a wig out of each pocket and handing one over.

 

"Kirihara-kun is too busy crying," Yagyuu points out, but wriggles out of his own pants all the same. It's sort of habit by now, so whatever. His glasses come off, handed over to Niou once the clothing exchange is complete. "It's still odd how they never notice this. We _really_ don't look anything alike. Did you completely make up with Yukimura-kun, by the way?" The further away from the boyfriend topic, the better. His heart just won't stop thudding out of his chest over it.

 

“Sort of. Yeah. Kind of. Completely.” Niou puts on the glasses, and his eyes go immediately out of focus, giving him a slight headache he finds rather nice. “We made up about the yips thing. I didn’t mention the other thing. In my defense, he _might_ not ever find out.”

 

"He's going to be angrier than before if he ever does," Yagyuu wearily points out, settling his wig into place and pulling out a few pins from it that were used the last time they did this. How Niou functions with all this hair in his face is beyond him. Right, and socks down. How _annoying_. "Tell him at some point, or you'll be a weird, sulky mess again in the future. I need your mole, where's the eyeliner?" 

 

“He couldn’t be angrier than if I told him everything at the same time,” Niou points out. “At least this way, I can space it out. Besides, he _might_ not find out.” He leans over, reaching into a pocket to pull out the emergency stub of eyeliner, dotting it onto Yagyuu’s chin. “Besides, he’s getting back to more of his old self. I didn’t want to fuck that up just so I don’t have to be worried about him being mad at me. Yakiniku’s fun, right?”

 

"Fun, and unusual for him at this time of year," Yagyuu admits, glancing over into the mirror. He looks the part now, good. "So long as you're okay with it. I like when you're both happy around one another." 

 

“I’m rather fond of it as well.” The voice takes over first, and Niou straightens up, shoulders back. How no one notices when they’ve got a height difference, and more importantly, a _shoulder_ difference, is kind of a mystery. Whatever, they’re just that good. “Ah. Niou-kun,” he says, a bit sternly, “you’re a bit untidy.” He yanks on the shirt, pulling it just the right amount out of the waistband.

 

Seriously, how does no one notice this? Whatever, Yagyuu is pretty into it. "Yeah, well. Whose fault is that, Yaaagyuu?" He gives the other boy's popped collar a flick with one finger before turning towards the door, already sliding into that familiar slouch. "Make sure you feed me this time, or I'm gonna starve. Yanagi said something about me and not enough calories." 

 

Niou adjusts his collar, sniffing a little. “I somehow doubt he factors in how much you eat when you sneak in through my window at night and clean out the entire refrigerator in your extreme rudeness.” Ever the gentleman, he unlocks and opens the door, bowing slightly and holding it open for the other boy. “Nevertheless, I suppose I can indulge you, as long as you don’t insist on over-saucing the meat.”

 

"Puri." Yagyuu lingers a brief moment, then leans over as Niou bows to blow across the curve of his ear. "One hell of a gentleman you are today, Boyfriend-san." 

 

Yes, that's a _lot_ easier to do as Niou. He's got this.

 


	12. The Flashback Chapter: Atobe & Tezuka

_Two Years Ago_

 

_Clap._

 

_Clap._

 

_Clap._

 

The slow sound pervades the air, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

 

Slowly, a boy walks out from the bleachers, unseen until now, hidden in the shadows and confident that he has never belonged there. His clothes are loose and breathable, of the finest quality, seeming to say, _I could be doing something athletic any time I wanted, I just choose to be the most discerning spectator around._

 

At least, that’s what he’d paid for them to say. 

 

“Not bad,” the boy says to the lone figure on the court, as soon as his dark-haired opponent runs off to the bathrooms, presumably to let out the tears he’s poorly concealing. “For a spectator. Maybe someday you’ll even be good enough to play me.”

 

The flat stare that Tezuka fixes upon the other boy is bored at best. Well, it's not unexpected that he'd bring about a few spectators, but he had _tried_ to wait until most everyone was gone. 

 

Except Sanada and Yukimura, of course. 

 

He had expected a bit more. Maybe if Sanada hadn't run off crying, he would have gotten to play Yukimura as well, but…as it is, the other boy had dashed off after his friend, begging for him to calm down. 

 

He turns away, pushing his glasses up as he bends down to pick up a ball left on the court, and deftly serves it back into his own tennis bag. "You were a spectator, too. I didn't see you in the tournament, so you must've been afraid to play." 

 

“Or, like you, I’m just not from Kanagawa.” It’s rare he finds his own arrogance matched. Atobe feels his fingers twitching, wishing for his racquet and a few balls, because he has a feeling that playing this boy would be _fun_. “Either you were scoping out the competition, or like me, you just want to know who would be the most fun to beat. Why did you choose Sanada, and not Yukimura?” 

 

He’d only heard of the two of them today, but Atobe never forgets a face or a name. He strolls closer, then stops, dismayed, when it becomes clear that getting closer will just emphasize how much taller the other boy is.

 

"Because it's better to work one's way up from the bottom." Tezuka glances back at him once before kneeling down to put his racquet away. It's not worth offering to play him. It's hot, and he's already tired, and if he attracts _more_ spectators like this guy, that's just going to be annoying. "Anyway, did you want something?" 

 

“Work one’s way up from the bottom,” Atobe muses, rolling the words over on his tongue. “Hmm, I’ve never been contented with the easy fight, myself, but for some people I suppose that’s all they can achieve.” He pulls out a business card--his father’s idea, everyone in Japan apparently uses one--and flicks it at the other boy in a way that would probably give his father heart palpitations. “If you ever want to try working from the top down, let me know.”

 

Tezuka's eyebrows slowly raise. A 12 year old with a business card. All right. Then again, even _he's_ heard of the Atobe Directorate (it's hard to ignore the giant stadium that's being built in the middle of Tokyo, after all) and if this is Atobe Keigo, then… 

 

"Our captain missed your team at the prefectural tournament this year," Tezuka mildly says, pocketing the business card against his better judgement. "I'm not sure if that qualifies you as the 'top', but thank you for the offer." 

 

“We were closed for restructuring.” Atobe flashes a brilliant smile. “If you’re really the ace they say you are, Tezuka Kunimitsu, you show a startling lack of curiosity.” He shoulders his own bag, looking around at the empty stadium. “Not as big as Wimbledon, but it will do, if you want to play a point. Otherwise, I’m sure we’ll meet soon on the Tokyo circuit. If you make it to finals, that is.”

 

 _You've seen Wimbledon?_ is the question that he automatically wants to ask, but no, that's giving Atobe not only too much credit, but too much attention. "Pass." Tezuka shoulders his bag--hmm, he really is a head taller, that's new--and steps past him. "There's no real competition in Tokyo, so making it to the finals there probably won't do much for your ego."

 

Atobe’s face falls slightly, settling into the usual mask of bored displeasure. “How disappointing you are. I’d heard of you.” The rumors that he was someone who truly loved tennis, someone that would do anything to play, were obviously false. This boy is nothing more than one of the aimless idiots he’d played a thousand times in England, interested in titles and statistics and nothing else. “It truly is too much to hope for to find someone like that in Japan, I see.” He doesn’t turn to watch Tezuka go. Strange, that just a minute earlier he’d felt excited that they were finally meeting at last.

 

~

 

If it had been because Tezuka had lost, that would be one thing. Atobe is expecting Tezuka to lose, either to someone else or to himself. But this...not turning up at all? This is unexpected. Perhaps he should have let it go, as Kabaji’s silence indicates, but the fact of the matter is that Atobe rarely lets anything go. He just waits for the moment to be right to bring it up again, no matter what the topic is.

 

A bit of preliminary research (“ _Oshitari, find out why he didn’t play and do not return to Hyoutei without an answer!”_ ) indicates that some medical reason is the issue. Well. If something medical is the reason, at least that can be fixed.

 

But Tezuka doesn’t show up to the next youth tournament either, and that’s no good. It’s no good enough that Atobe himself graces the tacky halls of Seigaku with his glorious presence, allowing Tezuka’s teammates to gaze upon his glory when he sets foot onto the court. “Oi, you,” he says, nodding his head at the freshman with the least tacky hairstyle. “Where is Tezuka?”

 

Usually, when someone strange shows up, it's not the end of the world. When someone strange shows up and asks for _Tezuka_ , however… 

 

Oishi regrets ever encouraging Tezuka and telling him to go out and play people from other schools, because ever since then, things like _this_ have happened, and coupled with all of the other animosity that apparently surrounds Tezuka, it's just not good. 

 

Now harassing Eiji is someone he hasn't seen before, and considering most mentions of Tezuka make any and all upperclassmen involvement into a maelstrom--"Excuse me," he attempts as he walks over, "these courts are for members only. If you need to speak with Tezuka, you can leave a note for him--"

 

"He's in the clubhouse," weird transfer student Fuji Shuusuke dreamily puts in. "But he's not going to want to talk to you."

 

"Fuji!"

 

"Hmm? Well, he's not." 

 

 _Clubhouse_ is a location instead of suspicion and strangeness, so Atobe seizes on that. “Thank you most graciously,” he says to the breathy dizzy boy who had supplied it. “And where might the clubhouse be?” He resists the urge to tip the boy for his time. That hadn’t gone over well the last time, and he’d been strictly informed that such things were Just Not Done in Japan.

 

"I'm sorry, but you really need to leave--" Oishi desperately attempts.

 

"I can show you," Fuji uncaringly says. "But again, he's not going to want to talk to you. He doesn't want to talk to _anyone_. And I'm mad at him right now." 

 

“That’s...fine,” Atobe says, an eyebrow raised. “I only need a moment of his time.” This, he thinks, is more strangeness than is appropriate for Japan. Even Japan has its weird outliers, and this seems to be a prime example.

 

Fuji drifts slowly off the court, waving a hand for Atobe to follow. "Just over here," he breezily says. "He's picked up a habit of restringing racquets whenever he's a bit stressed. He's probably doing it now." 

 

He doesn't bother to knock on the door, which subsequently results in a glare from one Tezuka Kunimitsu. He might not be restringing a racquet, but he's certainly huddled up over a book with about as much intensity. "Tezuka, you have a visitor--"

 

"No."

 

"But you do," Fuji says, logically. "He's right here."

 

"I said no." 

 

Fuji shrugs and sidles out of the doorway. "I told you he wasn't going to want to talk to you." 

 

“Don’t worry,” Atobe assures the odd little fellow, summarily urging him out of the clubhouse. “I won’t be a minute. Tezuka Kunimitsu, I missed you yesterday.” Shit, is that the right conjugation of “miss?” Not quite the one he’d intended, a bit more curt and less effortlessly pining than he’d intended, but the sentence will have to do without flair for the time being. Japanese is hard.

 

"I'll be here, Tezuka--" Fuji says before the door is shut in his face.

 

Tezuka looks up and over his book for a moment before his gaze slides right back down to it. "Did you. Was yesterday something important?" 

 

“The second Tokyo Youth Tournament finals since we last spoke.” Atobe leans back against the lockers, surveying the room. “You weren’t even in the audience, waiting to humiliate at the bottom and work your way up.”

 

"Ah. That." Tezuka shrugs, drawing a knee up to set his book against. "I forgot about it. Am I to assume you won, judging by the fact you're here?" 

 

“I always win.” Atobe says it as a matter of simple fact--which it is. “Whatever medical reason you have shouldn’t be a reason not to compete. How much will the treatment cost? I’ll write you a check.”

 

A statement like that out of nowhere brings Tezuka some pause, and he finally lowers his book, frowning. "I'm not really following. I don't want your money." 

 

“I’m not giving it to you,” Atobe says, slowly and carefully. “I’m giving it to the physician of your choosing. I’d heard you were the best, and I only want to play the best. If an injury is preventing that, I want the injury to go away. Is that simple enough for you to understand?”

 

"I'm not playing tennis anymore." Tezuka shuts his book completely. "The only reason I'm _here_ is because the captain hasn't processed my resignation from the club yet. Is that easy enough for _you_ to understand?" 

 

That changes things. “Yes,” Atobe murmurs, drawing out the last syllable. “Then I suppose this will be the last time you disappoint me. Farewell.”

 

He turns to go to the door, then stops with his hand on it, turning around with a more honest expression than ever on his face, even if it is a frown. “I know you can feel it, like I can. Don’t try to pretend you don’t. There’s a _greatness_ in you.” Too aggressive for Japan, and this boy looks more traditional than anyone, but Atobe doesn’t care. If he really isn’t playing tennis anymore, this will be the last time they ever see each other.

 

Probably he should keep his mouth shut, but something about Atobe--ugh. If the boy doesn't irritate him, he makes his hair stand on end, and the insinuation that he's a _disappointment_ to this egomaniac makes Tezuka want to throw his book at him. "I'm quitting because no one cares if I'm good at it. Everyone only cares if they can win, and if I make that impossible for them, then they'd rather ruin my chances instead. Do you really think you're so different?" 

 

So there is something underneath the cool, dry indifference. That’s good, even if it’s probably too little, too late. Atobe ignores the little voice in his head that tells him it isn’t. He just stares, enjoying the fact that they’re facing each other and Tezuka is sitting down (not _nearly_ as tall that way, good). “You’re playing the wrong people. Maybe you should come to Hyoutei. Merit is the only thing I reward. Maybe you still have a little of that left.”

 

"You really think I care about being rewarded by you, don't you." Tezuka pushes his glasses up, exasperated in spite of himself. "I'm not coming to Hyoutei. I never played tennis for _merit_. This injury was a way to finally see exactly how much this sport isn't for me."

 

Tezuka is kind of an infuriating person. Atobe’s jaw clenches, as do his fists, annoyed that he feels so _invested_ when he really shouldn’t. “You’re going to let them push you out?” he demands. “Just because they’re older doesn’t mean they’re better--ugh, bloody Japanese attitudes. If you’re letting someone push you away from something you love, you’re the one giving the reward--to them!”

 

He crosses his arms, turning to look at the lockers, walking his fingers across until he finds the one with Tezuka’s complicated kanji. “Then again, if you’re just quitting because it hurts and you hate it, there’s no loss to tennis. Many people can’t keep going when they find out it’s actually a difficult sport.”

 

"Seigaku doesn't allow first years to compete, but I don't care about that." Tezuka really, truly hates that he feels the need to even respond to anything that Atobe is saying, let alone explain the situation. Then again, there's something to be said about being regarded as a pathetic _quitter_ when he's fairly certain he has a good reason to be doing this. "I was fine waiting, because I still had tournaments outside of school. When I _was_ asked to play against the upperclassmen here, I only used my right arm--and still won. They found out I was left-handed, and _that's_ how I ended up injured. Why should I continue bothering with a sport that's just full of people that would hurt other people for the chance to win?" 

 

Tezuka firmly sets his jaw, and climbs to his feet, walking to the door--only to remember that Fuji is right outside of it, and thus rethinks his method of escape. Damn it. "Stop assuming that I'm running away just because my arm hurts. I really don't care about that, and you don't even _know me_ , besides." 

 

Japanese is so purposely vague, and Atobe hates that sometimes--like he hates the phrase _I ended up injured_ , when the specificity of another language would have helped him assign blame where he’s pretty sure it’s due. “They’re no real tennis players if they’re resorting to methods like that to win anything,” he says quietly, with as much conviction as he ever shows. “You’ll leave the tennis team in their hands? You—”

 

He puts an arm out in front of Tezuka, effectively blocking his escape. “There were upperclassmen like that at Hyoutei,” he says, blue eyes blazing at the memory. “They had their rules, and their petty cruelties. Their team _isn’t_ playing this year. Mine is. If your injury is holding you back, take my money. If it isn’t, what is?”

 

"I don't need your money." Fuji might be better than this. Maybe. Possibly. Tezuka doesn't know anymore, but he's starting to contemplate windows, because he _doesn't_ like being blocked in like this. "People like that are always going to exist, even if my arm heals. There's nothing I can do about that." 

 

“Ahn, true.” Atobe withdraws his arm. If Tezuka wants to run away from this too, he’s welcome to do so. “And in other sports. And in your classes. And as your professors, and your business seniors. What else will you let them take from you?” Maybe the reason he’s not as disgusted as he could be is that he can see how much it _hurts_ Tezuka, to try and leave tennis behind.

 

"Why do you _care?_ " Tezuka finally has to ask, frustrated. He can at least relax now that his path to the door isn't obstructed, even knowing that leaving is just going to be even more obnoxious. Atobe isn't the first one to throw a fit about all of this. Oishi was crying over it, but that seems _mild_ compared to Fuji's tantrum when the transfer student had actually _won_ their unsanctioned match. "If this is about wanting competition, go to Kanagawa." 

 

“Been there. The sea breeze was nice. The people, not as much.” Atobe hesitates, then looks around to make sure they aren’t being overheard. If he were a lesser human, one of those prone to such things as embarrassment, this might be one of those things. “I nearly let people like that drive me away from tennis, a long time ago.” He turns his face upwards, remembering, and lets out a long sigh. “It’s probably better to be hated for being good at something than for being strange. That’s what I decided, anyway. What do you want to be hated for?”

 

"For being a hikikomori," Tezuka deadpans. He's not entirely joking. He glances aside, exhaling a slow, calming breath. "I'm sorry you came out here for this. But I don't want your money, and I have no desire to undermine our current captain and his authority like you did at Hyoutei. There will be other good players for you to go against; focus on those." 

 

Atobe waves a hand, dismissive. “Don’t apologize to me. My time is not so fragile a thing that it can be wasted.” It is a disappointment, as usual. Every time he sees Tezuka Kunimitsu, he’s disappointed. Then again, that’s been true of almost anyone he’s ever played. “If you ever want to see real tennis being played, come to one of the tournaments. Or come to Hyoutei. My doors are open to you, even if you never walk through them.”

 

And perhaps that will be that. Certainly, he’s not going to take time out of his day to argue with a brick wall any longer, and Tezuka shows no signs of wanting to know him. If he’s serious about leaving tennis, Atobe thinks, turning for the door, there’ll be no reason for their paths ever to cross again.

 

~

 

While Tezuka doesn't expect Hyoutei to pull off a miracle in the Kantou finals, it would have been interesting. 

 

As it turns out, though, Yukimura has an agenda. Watching that agenda against Hyoutei is both awe-inspiring and terrifying, especially when doubles two is a decisive 6-0 (Sanada playing doubles? who knew), doubles one a lazy, slow 6-1 (Rikkai's oddball pair enjoys dropping a game, just for the hell of it, apparently), and shockingly, singles three is Yukimura himself, crushing Hyoutei's so-called genius serve and volley player without dropping a single point. 

 

Tezuka _does_ have to wonder how Atobe is taking it.

 

It turns out that Hyoutei has left to leave, mostly due to their fan club causing mob-like conditions around the courts. Walking over to the team's benching area is an interesting sight, especially when Akutagawa is a huddled, half-asleep (???) little ball in Atobe's lap. That's…interesting.

 

"You didn't even get to play," Tezuka greets, pushing up his glasses. "It would have been interesting to see." 

 

Not much can make Atobe’s head snap up when he’s quite this determined to be morose. Tezuka Kunimitsu’s voice, however, does that just fine. “Tezuka,” he says, a delighted half-smile stretching his lips. His fingers card gently through Jirou’s hair, never ceasing their slow motion. “I told Yukimura to meet me in Singles One. Maybe he’s as afraid to face me as you are.” The warmth in his voice belies the sting of the words. Maybe. “I thought you weren’t interested in tennis any longer.”

 

"Yukimura," Tezuka deadpans, "wanted to take his team out to eat before it got too late. May I sit?" 

 

Jirou sort of whimper-gurgles in his sleep--yes, he's definitely _just_ sleeping now--and tucks himself up into Atobe's jersey all the more. He looks far more pleased about this arrangement than he probably should, Tezuka thinks. 

 

“Please do.” God. Yukimura Seiichi. He’s almost impossible for Atobe to hate or fear, so he doesn’t. When it all comes down to it, he’s just another middle-schooler who likes playing tennis, and is good at it. Atobe has seen natural talent enough to have stopped being jealous about it by now. “Seigaku wasn’t on the roster. To be honest, I only checked briefly. From what I saw, you were the only one interesting enough to play, and now…” Ah, he’s reached that stage where Jirou is uncomfortably toasty in his lap. Ah, well, small price to pay.

 

"We didn't make it to the Kantou, obviously." Tezuka sets himself down, giving Jirou another odd glance before deciding to just ignore him. "You have your ticket to Nationals. That's the part that matters." 

 

“You,” Atobe says deliberately, “just said _we_.”

 

Tezuka gives him an irritated glance. "Yes. I did." 

 

“As I believe the Royal We is something used only in English-speaking countries,” Atobe says, switching to English for that brief phrase, “I can only assume that you’re playing tennis again.”

 

Atobe is infuriating, and this is why Tezuka has been avoiding him for a solid eight months. "I'm surprised you didn't know, considering you're the so-called King of Gossip among us." 

 

“This may come as a shock to you,” Atobe says, stretching out a bit (and repositioning Jirou slightly now that he’s sleeping instead of shaking), “but I’m quite willing to let those who quit in a huff drop off my radar. I didn’t want to merely be disappointed again.”

 

Jirou proceeds to start dangling off of Atobe's lap. Tezuka stares at him for a moment longer, until he starts snoring, and that just makes Tezuka want to smother him with a pillow. "I didn't quit in a huff. I took time off because of an injury." 

 

Atobe reaches a finger down, and taps underneath Jirou’s chin, closing his mouth. “I seem to remember something about _there are always going to be people like that around so I’d just as well not play ever agai_ n, or something like that.” He smiles, and claps Tezuka’s right shoulder in a firm grip. “I’m glad you didn’t let them get the better of you. You belong on the tennis court.”

 

Tezuka twitches at the touch. It's a typical reaction to become as stiff as a board when someone touches him, and now is no different--perhaps even more so, because he rather does hate having his words tossed back into his face. "You've seen me play once. You certainly are fast to judge who belongs where." 

 

“So play me.” The words come easily, swiftly, when he’s been thinking about it for so long. “I didn’t get to play today, and neither did you. We were both robbed of our chance to compete against each other in the finals, and tournament season is over soon. There’s an open court, and I even have my racquet this time.”

 

Tezuka arches an eyebrow. "Your team just lost. Shouldn't you be comforting them instead of playing against me, Atobe-buchou?" 

 

“A loser who takes comfort that easily will never become a winner,” Atobe says dismissively. “I’ve been wanting to kick those third-years off the regulars for a month. This just gives me a reason. And I think I’ve quite comforted our Singles Three player, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.” He gives Tezuka a wry grin. “Unless you don’t want to play?”

 

"I don't have a racquet. I didn't come here to play today." Jirou slowly drips off of Atobe's lap, his arms dangling towards the ground. Tezuka tries not to stare. "If Hyoutei wanted a friendly practice match with Seigaku in the future, though…you _are_ talking to their vice-captain right now, so it could possibly be arranged."

 

Atobe’s face simply lights up in honest delight. “Are you really? That’s fantastic! Wait just a moment, he’s sliding.” Rather than haul Jirou up, Atobe snaps at Kabaji, who emerges from the background and scoops Jirou into his arms. “Take him to my car, make him comfortable,” he instructs, and turns back to Tezuka. “When can we set it up?”

 

Shockingly, this is actually something of a relief. Seeing Atobe look at him with something other than disappointment is new, and…good. Somehow. Even though Atobe is weird, and apparently has hulking manservants lingering in the shadows. "I'll have to talk to our captain, but it will probably do Hyoutei some good to have it before Nationals." 

 

“As long as you don’t avoid me like _someone_ ,” Atobe says with a laugh. “I fully expect to see you in Singles One, hmm? I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to it.” More than he’d expected, honestly.

 

"I'm assuming you don't play anything but Singles One," Tezuka dryly retorts, "so I'll see what I can do." What does he do now? Bow and leave and just shy of beg Yamato-buchou to make this all happen? Fantastic. Tezuka sucks in a slow breath as he climbs to his feet, and offers Atobe his hand instead. "Good luck in the National tournament." 

 

Tezuka is clearly expecting a handshake, and Atobe gives him one. Then, he doubtless ruins it by bowing over that hand, brushing his lips against the knuckles just slightly. “I eagerly anticipate our next meeting,” he says, meeting Tezuka’s eyes without a hint of embarrassment.

 

There’s just something _interesting_ about Tezuka Kunimitsu.

 

Atobe Keigo is a problem, and this proves it.

 

Reflex makes Tezuka yank his hand back, especially when his face heats up hotter than Tezuka can ever remember. He probably could have been more elegant about that--it's just because Atobe is _European_ , that's definitely why Atobe did that--but he'd be lying if the whole thing didn't take him off guard. "Until then," he manages to say without stammering, and whirls on his heel to make a quick exit.

 

Maybe Atobe will lose horribly at their practice match. He deserves it, for acting like _that_. 

 

~

 

Atobe has rarely been so frustrated.

 

The third-year they sent against him--their captain, apparently--loses horribly, and Atobe can’t even be terribly pleased. He hardly waits until the match is over before striding up to Tezuka, ignoring the two that always seem to flank him, the dreamy one and the tacky haircut one. “Were you really that afraid to lose?” he demands, face flushed with indignation and _not_ with the exercise, meager as it was. “I hope you’re satisfied that you can beat the third-best on Hyoutei. If I played your best, Seigaku should be terrified for next year.” 

 

 _I thought you of all people were better than this,_ he doesn’t say, but it’s plain as text on his face.

 

"Oh, he's mad," Fuji says, listing a little to one side. 

 

Oishi frowns. "Atobe-san--I'm really not sure where all of this is coming from, but this isn't the first time you've harassed Tezuka--"

 

"It's fine."

 

Oishi just gapes at him. "What part of this is fine? _We_ invited them here for a practice match, and now their captain is insulting you--"

 

"It's fine," Tezuka quietly repeats, and glances back to Atobe, attempting to not look down his nose at the other boy who hasn't quite caught up in height yet. "Atobe, let's talk about this in the clubhouse instead." 

 

"That wasn't his best!" one over-eager Inui Sadaharu shouts over to them, obviously having overheard the conversation. "According to my data, that was only a _portion_ of Tezuka's ability, something akin to 20%, no, _17%_ \--"

 

Tezuka just starts walking. 

 

Atobe follows. It’s the only way he’ll get any answers, any solution to the disappointment and disgust that he’d thought were past them now. It’s odd, it’s _weird_ , that he’s so riled up over this now that he finds out Tezuka is just like the rest of them after all. He shuts the door behind them, adjusting his hair before crossing his arms. “Tell me there’s a reason,” he says quietly, hoping it’s true even if he doesn’t say that much.

 

_"Blame it on me," Yamato says, shrugging. "Tell them you're our secret weapon, and we don't want to show them everything. It doesn't matter to me what you tell them, but you aren't playing Singles One with your arm still like that."_

 

"I'm still recovering."

 

While it gives him a migraine to figure out the reasons behind it, Tezuka finds it somewhat aggravating to lie to Atobe. That's especially the case now, when he had invited Atobe here and had _expected_ to be able to play singles one against him. "I wanted to play singles one--and I had promised to only play with my right arm, but I probably would have played with my left anyway," he admits, folding his arms loosely across his chest. "And my captain figured that out." 

 

Oh.

 

Atobe lets out a long, slow breath. It startles him, to realize how angry he’d been when he’d thought Tezuka was purposely avoiding him. Now, he relaxes, the relief on his face a visible thing. “Oh. Then I apologize for being cross with you. You move so well, I had no idea.” He moves closer, extending a hand to touch Tezuka’s shoulder, running it down to his elbow, not quite sure where the pain is. “The offer is still open, by the way. At any time. Should you wish a doctor of a higher caliber than they offer in Japan, I can make arrangements.”

 

Try as he might not to jerk and flinch at the touch, it's sort of inevitable. Tezuka thinks his avoidance of human contact gotten worse since Fuji has started sliding up behind him and breathing on his neck at odd times. "It's fine. You couldn't have known." He shifts back slightly all the same. "I've told you before, I don't need your money. It's healing. I just…" A shrug follows that, awkwardly. "It's easier said than done not to practice with it still. I know it's my fault that I haven't recovered completely yet." 

 

“It isn’t entirely about money,” Atobe says, pulling back when he sees the flinch. There’s no need for that, honestly. “My family has more than that, we have connections. There’s a clinic in Germany, for example, that only sees six patients a year. My father is friends with the man who determines admittance. That sort of thing.” A smile tugs at his lips. “I don’t doubt that were I in your shoes, I’d be just as incorrigible. Make sure you’re fully recovered by the next time we meet on the court. I won’t be disappointed again, Tezuka Kunimitsu.”

 

"…I'm not sure that I owe you anything, you know," Tezuka says, somewhat incredulous. Even still, he can't be _annoyed_ at this point. In a way, he's just as frustrated as Atobe. "I appreciate your offer, but when you follow it up by saying that you're tired of being disappointed, I'm really inclined to never play you just to drive you insane. You'll have to deal with Nationals in a few weeks, focus on that instead." 

 

Atobe releases a sigh of the long-suffering. “I hope your pride is worth your arm, Seigaku’s Ace. Until we meet again.”

 

There’s just a hint of an idea to ask Tezuka--what? Out for coffee? They’re thirteen, not twenty. Over for a sleepover? They’re thirteen, not eight. Frustrated, this time with only himself to blame, Atobe leaves Tezuka behind, determined to whip all the losers into shape before Nationals.

 

~

 

On October 7, a lavishly-decorated package shows up at Tezuka’s front door, delivered by a courier. The package itself is full of tennis balls instead of packing peanuts, and safeguards a small envelope concealing two all-inclusive tickets to a mountaineering resort in New Zealand, as well as a small note.

 

_My dear Tezuka Kunimitsu,_

 

_Forgive my magnificent, magnanimous supposition. I recently read in Tennis Monthly that your birthday was only three days apart from my own, and that you enjoy climbing mountains. Don’t take anyone too stressful with you. I’m going to recommend against the one who’s always breathing on your neck, but there’s no accounting for taste._

 

_In glorious generosity,_

 

_~Atobe Keigo_

 

Of course, Tezuka's mother is thrilled. 

 

"It's _so_ good to see you making friends, Kunimitsu!"

 

"...I have friends."

 

"Friends _other_ than your tennis team's members."

 

Tezuka doesn't have the heart to tell her that this is just another tennis player, and that he still performs rather poorly during basic social interactions. 

 

The _real_ question is what he's supposed to do with these tickets. When is he going to find time to go and do something like this? Over the summer sounds nice, but with any luck, he'll be a professional tennis player by next summer… 

 

His arm starts aching, as if to mock that thought. 

 

The other question is _why did Atobe bother with this_. For some reason, Atobe's card from nearly two years ago is stashed away in his nightstand, and Tezuka begrudgingly fishes it out, hoping that number still works. 

 

Atobe never answers the phone on the first ring. If he’d seen Caller ID, he’d have broken that rule. Atobe opens the phone, relaxing back into an extraordinarily overstuffed armchair. “Tezuka Kunimitsu! And happy birthday to you.”

 

"Don't you mean 'Dearest' Tezuka Kunimitsu?" Tezuka dryly retorts, not sure if he's glad the number works or if he's disappointed. "Why, Atobe." 

 

Atobe’s chuckle drops his voice to something low and throaty. “I can call you my dearest if that pleases you.”

 

 _That_ was not the reaction Tezuka was expecting. It brings a generous amount of pause to his end of things, especially when he has to sit down and attempt to piece together _why_ his face is so hot when Atobe isn't even in the room. "…Refrain. You didn't answer my question." 

 

“I thought I answered that rather explicitly in my little note. It’s a birthday gift!”

 

"Yes, and thank you, but _why_." Is he missing some social cue here? Perhaps he's already turned into a hikikomori. 

 

No. Not yet. Tezuka is fairly certain that Atobe is reaching here, but for _what_. 

 

It’s Atobe that pauses this time, running over the dialogue up until this point. “You’ll have to help me out and flesh out the question here. I’ve been back in Japan for years now; birthday gifts _are_ still customary, are they not? If you don’t like the location, I can change the tickets.”

 

"That's not it." _In fact, it's perfect._ Tezuka bites back a sigh and stares up at the ceiling for strength. "I'm just confused as to why you would send _me_ a birthday gift. You barely even know me."

 

“As far as I’m concerned,” Atobe drawls, “the only excuse for not giving someone you like a birthday gift is ignorance of that person’s birthday. Honestly, if it pleases you, what’s the harm?”

 

"I can't help but feel like you're trying to buy a tennis match off of me or something similar." 

 

The pause this time is significant. When he speaks, Atobe’s voice is considerably lower, and softer. “I know a great many men who can be bought. The fact that you aren’t one of them is a major reason why I enjoy the idea of giving you some time away from it all.”

 

A better explanation, to be sure.

 

"…All right." Tezuka slowly relaxes, shutting his eyes briefly. "It will be awhile before I can use them. They aren't going to expire, are they?" He's fairly certain the answer is 'no.' God forbid if anything could ever 'expire' if it came from the Atobe Directorate. 

 

“I’ll refrain from being offended at the remark,” Atobe says, sounding considerably more amused this time. “Consider that a second gift.” He pauses, then adds, “Though if you ever _do_ want to play, I have clay, hard, and grass courts.”

 

"Are these the same courts you were claiming were for the exclusive use of Hyoutei's tennis club?" 

 

“For them? Please. They aren’t going anywhere near my clay courts. These are for my personal use only. And of course, my honored guest.”

 

Tezuka's eyes glaze a bit. "Real clay courts. Just like in the French open."

 

“Had them imported. They’re the only clay courts in Japan.” Atobe tries not to feel quite so delighted at the wistful note in Tezuka’s voice. “I’ll leave your name with the gatekeeper. You can come over and play on them any time you like, day or night.”

 

It _sounds_ like a good idea. A very good one, because where else is he going to ever play on a clay court? Nowhere else in Japan, apparently. But… "I'll let you know." Tezuka grimaces. "Somehow, I was elected student council president. It eats up more time than you might believe." 

 

That's one good excuse, with the other having quite a bit to do with the fact his arm just feels _off_. Atobe doesn't need to know that, though.

 

“Ahn? Wouldn’t I? I’ve been school president since I came to Hyoutei.” Atobe sighs, and reaches for a lavender-filled calming mask, draping it over his eyes. “Just come grab me someday when you’re free. I adore surprises, especially from...well. From someone I like as much as you.”

 

"Good bye, Atobe." 

 

How he attracts people like this, Tezuka will _never_ understand. 

 

…This one could be worse, though.

 

~

 

"He's just trying to spy on us and find out about your skills," Oishi frets in his ear after Tezuka mentions the invitation. It could be true. The problem with that theory is the assumption that Atobe is somehow scared of his skills, and that his ego would allow him any sort of insecurity, and thus the urge to spy on others to figure out their secrets. 

 

That's why, ultimately, the urge to play on a clay court overwhelms all. 

 

Atobe wasn't kidding about the gatekeeper knowing his name. Tezuka isn't sure what he expected about that, but…well, he never really knows what to expect regarding Atobe at all. His mansion is sprawling, which is ridiculous in Tokyo, of all places. It's no small wonder he has that many tennis courts lurking within.

 

 _Red_ clay, even, just like the French open. Tezuka wonders if he's dead and this is his version of heaven. Probably not, though, considering the moment he sets his tennis bag down, some enormous excuse of a dog bounds in and is _on him_. Dogs aren't supposed to have this much hair, either. What even. 

 

“Beat, _no_! Heel! Curses, you magnificent mutt, listen to your master!”

 

It takes a lot more arm strength and a lot less command-following to get the dog off of Tezuka, and Atobe winds up rolling around with the afghan for a few minutes before he truly has everything under control. Beat has finally realized who he is, and is sitting, tail thumping the ground as he ignores Atobe’s lecture on propriety.

 

“Go with Georgette,” Atobe says firmly, pointing towards the door where a maid is almost in tears. “She was _almost_ done with your grooming. Never fear, my dear Georgette,” he calls, sending the dog over with a slap on the rump. “I’m tripling your salary this month, there’s a good girl.”

 

Finally, he straightens up, grinning apologetically at Tezuka. “He’s a discerning judge of character,” he assures the other boy heartily. “My apologies, he just wants to be friends with everything and everyone.”

 

Being clay-stained is fine because it's courtesy of a _clay court_. Tezuka still wonders about how that dog can survive with so much fur as he pats a hand briefly around for his glasses and wipes them off on his shirt as he climbs to his feet. "It's fine. I would have expected a dog of yours to be…more well-trained, though."

 

Atobe beams. “I confess, I just don’t have the heart to discipline him when he just...well, he just loves so whole-heartedly. Here, give me your things.” He takes everything that isn’t necessary, shuttling it to the outer edge of the court. “What do you like to do to warm up? We can play an actual match if you want, or just rally for a bit.” He’s bouncing on the balls of his feet, just a little. He’d never thought it would be so _exciting_ to have Tezuka here.

 

'Bouncy' isn't one of the things Tezuka ever imagined Atobe to be, but apparently, he was wrong. "…We can just rally." His eyebrows raise. "Have your other practice partners left you alone for too long, or is Hyoutei's defeat at Nationals still haunting you? Placing yourself in anything but singles one might give you a better chance, you know." 

 

“If you continue acting suspicious and sour towards every nice thing that people do for you,” Atobe warns, jogging over to the other side of the court, “it won’t be long until they stop doing it. Go ahead and serve, whenever you’re ready. Oh, and there’s a machine, if you want to try it later.”

 

" _I_ was merely attempting to give you good advice." Balls bounce differently on clay, and he _does_ like that. Right hand for now, Tezuka thinks, and tries to suppress the odd flutter of excitement that comes when he tosses the ball up and sends it flying over. Serving to Atobe, _finally_. How long has this been coming, exactly? 

 

Immediately, Atobe knows.

 

_This is what I’ve been waiting for._

 

More familiar with the way balls bounce on clay than Tezuka is, Atobe lunges, an easy forehand return. Not too much power, not yet. This isn’t about showing off every skill he has. This is about giving Tezuka something fantastic.

 

(Privately, Atobe wonders when he started thinking so much about how to make Tezuka happy. Even more privately, he wonders how much success he’s been having.)

 

Higher bounce, but slower. Read enough books on it, and he knows the theory, but seeing it in action is different. Atobe does like hitting deep to the baseline and that suits Tezuka just fine, because if it's up to him, he'll never leave it. An easy, probing shot is Tezuka's return, giving him a chance to watch the way the ball moves once more. "There are only synthetic and hard courts here in Tokyo," Tezuka wistfully says. "Everyone is missing out." 

 

“If you like this, we can try grass next time. You’ll _hate_ it.” Atobe sees the opportunity for a drop shot, but pops it back to the baseline instead, reminding himself that this isn’t a real game. “You’ll have to practice before you go pro, though. That’ll get you ready for Wimbledon.”

 

Tezuka gives him a pointed stare as he taps the ball back over, taking the chance for a drop shot out of sheer habit alone. "Are you stalking me, or just guessing about career paths?"

 

Atobe leaps forward, executing a graceful backhand that taps the shot over before it hits the ground. The high bounce is a lot to get used to, he knows, and doesn’t want to end the rally with one of Tezuka’s famous drop shots just yet. “You knew they used clay courts at the French Open,” he points out, jogging back to get ready for the next serve. “Between that and your skills, of course you’re thinking about the circuit. I can’t wait to play you at Wimbledon!”

 

Atobe has been stalking him. Or at the very least, reading up on him. Oh well, know your enemy and all of that.

 

Tezuka shrugs, scooping up another ball. "We'll see. I didn't imagine you wanting to go pro--not for lack of skill, but the obligations of your family name and all of that." Truthfully, rallies are silly things, and now that he can calculate the course of the ball a bit better, his next serve is harder and faster, even with only the use of his right hand at his disposal. 

 

That serve is dangerous. Atobe isn’t expecting it, and it nearly knocks the racket out of his hand, going wide. He quirks an eyebrow, then pulls another ball out of his pocket as the first one bounces gleefully away. “I have until I’m 20,” he admits. “Or until my father stops being in sound mind and body. Being a former champion athlete is a strong bargaining chip, or so I’ve managed to convince him.” He hesitates for a moment, then goes into a full Tannhauser Serve. Tezuka deserves the best.

 

The amount of control required for a serve like that on a clay court is nothing short of outstanding, and Tezuka feels his breath catch up in his chest. Returning it is something he falls short of, but now, having read the course and speed of it--"Again," he firmly says, instinct making him switch to his left hand. "That's a good number of years to enjoy the circuit, at least. You might get bored otherwise." 

 

Atobe looks askance at Tezuka’s hand switch, then shrugs. He’s not Tezuka’s doctor. One serve can’t hurt him _too_ much, and it’s been forever since he was injured. “I’m never bored,” he says flippantly, and god, when he’s around Tezuka, it’s true. “Get ready!”

 

He’s looser now, and the serve is true, slamming into hard clay.

 

It's _much_ easier to go after that serve with his left hand. 

 

It requires a longer reach, which he's much more confident with when he's actually left-handed on the court. There's also a lot of weight behind it, and Tezuka half-expects something in his arm to crack again, but there's nothing when the bottom of his racquet catches the ball and scoops it up into a lob. Well, that's not a perfect return, but it's a return all the same. "If you actually put yourself in a slot other than singles one," he dryly brings up again, "that serve might actually do you some good." 

 

“Singles One isn’t about getting to play every time,” Atobe calls, twisting into a smash on that lob. It isn’t like he doesn’t get to play good opponents often, of course--but Tezuka Kunimitsu is something special. “It gives them peace of mind, to know that no matter what...we’ll carry every tiebreak. I’m their structural support, you could say.”

 

"I know _why_ you put yourself there, other than your overwhelming ego." Taking the power away from Atobe's serves and smashes is more difficult than he'd imagined it being, and that's…interesting. Refreshing, more like. Reflex makes him want to run to the net and hit a drop shot and end it all, but…no. He waits instead, lingering at the baseline, sliding back on one foot to take the brunt of that smash with his backhand. "I was just mentioning it because after your defeat against Rikkai in the Kantou, I would have thought you changed your strategy somewhat." 

 

Atobe snorts at that. “Wait until you play Rikkai Dai Fuzoku,” he advises, sending an elegant slice across that barely clears the net. “Just between us? It wouldn’t have made a difference. I’d have won, but it would have been one game to three. I don’t have anyone else that can stand up to them this year.” He hasn’t said it aloud before now, knowing how much it’ll hurt his team, but _honestly_.

 

"You think you would have beat Yukimura?" Admittedly, he thinks he could have, too, before his injury, but saying it out loud is like inviting a half dozen plagues. Tezuka doesn't lunge for the ball--he takes one long-legged step forward, hitting Atobe another lob. "I would have enjoyed watching that match." 

 

“I would have enjoyed playing it.” These lobs are like little presents, and he returns them in the form of what he thinks Tezuka will like most--smashes, right to the baseline. Odd how they all seem to go just to the right or left of where he intends. This must be the famous Tezuka Zone, of course. “I’ll play him one day. The winner will be me!”

 

 _Play me first_ is what nearly slips out, and stays on the tip of Tezuka's tongue until he reminds himself that they're already playing, even if it isn't a "real" match. Real enough, though, because the strength behind Atobe's hits are always real, and he _really_ does like that. "At least you only have him to worry about," Tezuka mildly remarks instead, and his next shot is a slice, sharp and fast over the net. "You could beat Sanada in your sleep." 

 

“Doubtless I will one day,” Atobe says in what he hopes is an enigmatic tone of voice. Then, he sees an opening, and his eyes light up as he takes it. “Now, be awed by my prowess!” He whirls in the air, and smashes the ball, faster than any shot he’s sent over so far.

 

Something _should_ be done about that ego, but…whatever. 

 

Now isn't exactly the time, not when Tezuka has to move further than he'd like for that shot, and well, there goes the zone. Even more annoying is the way his hesitation makes his racquet fly from his hand, and he straightens up with a sigh, shrugging it off. Smarter to not hit it, really, when his arm still feels off. "Nice one," he compliments instead, bending down to pick up his racquet, right-handed again in spite of the fun of really being able to play as he'd like.

 

Atobe notices.

 

Since it’s only a practice game, he feels no compunction in rolling his shoulder, calling, “Ready for a quick break? We have ranking matches tomorrow, and I’ve been instructed by our coach not to practice too hard beforehand.”

 

Tezuka hesitates, but nods all the same. He feels no real desire to assert that he's better by pushing onward, especially when he's fairly certain that in his current condition, he's not. Atobe isn't Sanada, after all (thank god). "A break would be appreciated." _I'm sure you've been dying to show off other things to me, anyway._

 

Atobe leads Tezuka to the Exercise Lounge, handing him a microfiber towel. “Sauna? Shower?” He presses a discreet button, and a servant is on hand with homemade energy drinks (carbonated honey-lemon water with crushed salt), muffins of varying fiber content, and fresh fruits unobtainable anywhere else in Japan at this time of year.

 

All right. There are perks to being…acquaintances (???) with Atobe Keigo.

 

"No use for either, if we're going to keep playing later." Tezuka warily selects a muffin, turning it around in his hand. "And here I thought you were exaggerating about your facilities here."

 

“One of the perks to being as I am, my dear Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, plucking a drink from the tray, “is that I never need to exaggerate.” He pauses, then adds, “Please forgive the rudeness of using your name. I still forget sometimes that I’m not overseas.” 

 

It’s a lie. He never “forgets” with anyone else. He just likes the way _Kunimitsu_ sounds on his tongue.

 

Jarring, to be certain, but not…bad. It's more the fact that no one calls him that outside of his own family than anything else. Tezuka shrugs, taking a drink for himself as well. "I don't mind. I would ask, though, that you forgo it in public. I'm not interested in anyone questioning your familiarity with me." 

 

A little thrill goes through Atobe at that. Oh, dear. Maybe it wasn’t just that he likes the sound of the name. “Don’t worry,” he reassures the other boy, fingers brushing against his as he clinks their glasses together. “I’ll keep our familiarity quite secret.” 

 

He’s not used to being uncertain about things. He doesn’t like it, and ah, well, there’s no use in prolonging it. He’s waited two years to stop feeling hot under the collar when Tezuka is around, and since that hasn’t happened, he might as well do something about it. “Do you speak English, perchance?”

 

"Decently, but not entirely fluently," Tezuka admits, pointedly glancing away when their hands just happen to touch. This habit of blushing when he's around Atobe needs to stop. "I think I've been dividing my time between it and German too much." 

 

In fluent German, Atobe says, “No, German is no good for this sort of thing. Too abrupt, too...coarse.” 

 

He steps backward once, just enough to convey a lack of desire to step inside boundary lines. He switches to English, hoping for some comprehension, and says, “To be perfectly honest, I fancy you. I can say it in Japanese if you’d prefer, but I prefer the English words if possible.” They’re less demanding than _please go out with me_ , less blunt and vague than _like!_  

 

Oh.

 

Yes, he knows enough English for this.

 

With this, though, unlike every other awkward conversation or situation he's ever had with Atobe, Tezuka isn't flustered as much as he is stuck feeling like a deer in the headlights. He quickly looks away to avoid staring back and looking somewhat terrified. _Now_ he can sympathize with Oishi, he supposes. Girls have always been too scared to confess to him (why would they, anyway?), but this, in a way, is a dozen times worse. 

 

It's rude not to reply in some fashion, though. While Tezuka has never given himself a pat on the back for his perfect manners, this seems sort of…necessary. But--"…I have no idea what you want me to say," he finally manages, hoping he doesn't sound as nervous as he feels. He's sure at this point that he's to blame for this, at least partially. _He's_ the one that's gotten flustered whenever Atobe acted so… _European_ around him. "This isn't England, you know. You can't just…" 

 

Delicacy, then. If he wants to even salvage the budding friendly rivalry they’ve started building, delicacy is the all-important key. “I don’t expect anything from you,” he says, back in Japanese. “Please don’t feel that a polite refusal would damage or injure me in any way, Kunimitsu. If this _were_ England, I’d have just pinned you to the wall and stuck my tongue down your throat...but as you say, this is Japan.” He gives a small, genuine smile, and an inclination of his head that’s as much of a bow as even his coach ever gets from him. “My affection has no time limit. If you later decide you’d like me to pursue you--or the other way around, whichever you’d like--you have only to make me aware.” 

 

Yes, that feels much better. He sets his drink down on the empty tray, stretching up to make sure he hasn’t gone stiff. “Alternatively, if you’d care to run screaming from the foreign pervert, I can have Alexander show you the door. No hard feelings.”

 

Apparently, he's just not going to stop being wide-eyed any time soon, especially when Atobe is only now starting to make him blush. "…You really didn't have to tell me what you'd do if this were England," Tezuka mutters, pushing his glasses up anxiously. Still, Atobe _hasn't_ done those things, and that settles him…somewhat. "I'd like to think that you have more class than any foreign pervert does." _Why me_ is still on the tip of his tongue, somewhat desperate and very confused. Really, he'd thought himself incredibly unpleasant. That's sort of the _point_ of being a budding hikikomori. 

 

“Any _other_ foreign pervert,” Atobe corrects gently, with a smile he hopes is only harmlessly rakish. “There, now. Sorry to burden you, but I do feel much better than I did keeping it from you.” He opens the door back to the courts, trying to look entirely carefree (and not quite able to stop his fingers from trembling just slightly, damn it all). “If you aren’t too horrified, we could play another match.”

 

"No one has ever confessed to me before."

 

Tezuka isn't sure _why_ he feels the need to admit that. Atobe is giving him a way out, and it's clear as day. Still--the fact that _Atobe_ is trying to make this all go away gives Tezuka a bit of hope that Atobe is just as worried about having admitted this as Tezuka is having _heard it_. He swallows around the lump in his throat and shifts uneasily. "But I know I'm supposed to give you an answer, even if it's…weird." 

 

“It’s only weird if you let it be weird,” Atobe volunteers. “Look, Kunimitsu-- _Tezuka_ , I honestly don’t care a whit about what you’re ‘supposed to’ do. Doubtless you get enough of that from the rest of your life.” He’s a repressed Japanese boy if ever Atobe’s seen one--and he’s seen Ootori. “Please do nothing for the sake of my feelings. As you said, my ego can take any blow.” His eyes _do_ seem to be locked onto Tezuka’s, though, and he’s not quite able to look away. Tezuka is...magnetic.

 

"No, it's weird. _You're_ weird." A childish accusation, especially coming from his own tongue, but Tezuka can't help it. "I barely even know you, and I came over to your _house_. I never do that. I stay at home and read, or I go and play tennis by _myself_. What could you _possibly_ like about me, anyway? You _do_ know there are rumors about you sleeping with Osakan housewives, right?" 

 

“That’s quite a slew of accusations, I think.” Atobe slowly lets the door slide shut, discomfitted. This isn’t exactly the way he’d hoped it would go, but he’d been prepared for the eventuality. “If you feel I dragged you over here, well, I’m not sorry for it. I wanted to play you, and I’m glad I did.” 

 

He ticks that off on his finger, and adds, “As for the Osakan housewife thing, yes, I have heard that rumor, and I know who started it as well. He’s the asshole you played in Singles Three when we played that practice match.”

 

Another finger ticked off. “As for what I like about you…” His brow furrows, and there’s a brief flash of longing in his eyes before he looks away. “Your composure. Your determination. The...the love you have, the passion, and even more than that, the fight-back. The fact that you aren’t quite what anyone thinks you are, and not because you try and look any specific way, just because there’s so much _to_ you that it makes you unknowable.” 

 

He cuts himself off with as close to a self-deprecating laugh as Atobe is ever likely to forget. “I’ll stop before I embarrass myself further, thank you.”

 

"No." 

 

Stress about this whole thing must make him bolder in a way, because Tezuka reaches out to grab hold of Atobe's wrist before he can help himself. For some reason, he feels like Atobe's just going to _leave_ if this conversation keeps going, and it's his house, so he has the right, but still. "You're not…embarrassing yourself." Another swallow, and this one is harder to deal with when he looks at Atobe. As per usual, it's nigh impossible to _lie_ to this idiot's face. Atobe would see through it, anyway. At least, that's what Tezuka has always assumed (and sort of liked). "You didn't drag me here. You invited me, and I came. I didn't think…" He trails off, brow furrowing as he lets his fingers slip away, loosening their hold. "I think…I like you, too." 

 

Atobe exhales a huge breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and the tension he’d been hiding melts from his shoulders as his face lights up. Tezuka is telling the truth. He usually does, and Atobe adores that, when most people he knows are two-faced (or mentally incapable of lying). He grabs Tezuka’s hand before the other boy can drop it, and uses it to pull him close, then stops. His cheeks are flushed, eyes wide as he looks up (dammit, Tezuka is still taller). “You...ah, you must be—” _So bloody virginal_ , and when was the last time he was with someone like that?

 

Screw it, he’d already said what he’d do if they were in England. If Tezuka wasn’t scared off by that, he won’t be by a simple kiss, Atobe’s hands coming up to cup his cheeks and draw him down.

 

The reflex is to bolt, and so when Tezuka restrains himself from that, he hopes Atobe doesn't notice him trembling. He has a dozen reasons to be nervous about this, he thinks. One, he's never been kissed. Two, it's another _boy_ , and theoretically, that shouldn't be happening. Three, it's _Atobe Keigo_ , and while Tezuka has never allowed himself to be intimidated by rumors or status or anything like that…it's still _Atobe Keigo_ , and his reputation precedes him in things like this. 

 

Plus, Atobe's lips are far softer than Tezuka expected them to be, and the height difference actually does make Atobe kind of _easy_ to kiss, shockingly enough…

 

"Sorry--" He feels the need to apologize all the same, because when is he less than an expert at _anything_ that he does, according to the general populous. Tezuka draws back after that initial brush, swallowing hard. "I've never…done this with anyone." 

 

“I’m honored.” Atobe’s voice is hardly above a murmur, but the look in his eyes is sincere, gentle, as he brushes his fingertips down Tezuka’s cheek, reveling in just being able to touch him that much. “And I can sort of tell,” he admits, and decides to trust his instincts. “You don’t have to be the genius at everything, you know.” 

 

His hand trails down to Tezuka’s chest, suddenly fisting in the fabric and yanking him close enough to be effortlessly kissed. “Just enjoy.” 

 

His mouth is more sure, more demanding this time. Atobe wants, wants him _badly_ , and just being able to kiss Tezuka, firm and gentle at the same time, sates a need in him he didn’t know he had.

 

It's less a matter of being flustered or embarrassed now, more a matter of how his knees start buckling when Atobe suddenly _grabs him_ like that. 

 

That's new. Very new, surprisingly good, enough to just kind of make Tezuka agree in the form of going somewhat limp and letting Atobe yank him as he pleases. Kissing him like this is good. Definitely better than he could have imagined (though he hasn't imagined much, he'll admit), especially when Atobe's mouth is warm and insistent and _really_ not giving him a chance to pull away. Tezuka swallows down a noise or five, and settles for grabbing at Atobe's arms to steady himself. 

 

Sometimes, Atobe wishes he were amoral.

 

Tezuka is grabbing at him, and the barest touch of Insight (or being able to read people) tells Atobe that if he wanted, he could have Tezuka on every surface in the Manor right now. The thought is beyond tempting--the thought of Tezuka spread out and flushing, arching, clutching at him and gasping his name _beyond_ a distraction--and it takes genuine effort for Atobe to regretfully pull away.

 

He’s breathing harder than he’d anticipated, and lays his forehead against Tezuka’s. “We should do something else for now,” he says, a little hoarse. “Or you can go home for now and come back later.” His smile is a little shaky as he draws in a long breath. “I don’t want anything to get in the way of me treating you the way you deserve, and you’re far too tempting for me.”

 

"…Uh huh," is all Tezuka sluggishly manages for a moment, his eyes shut behind his glasses as he tries to properly catch his breath. Locking his knees like this isn't a good idea, but it's _really_ the only thing keeping him on his feet right now, outside of clinging to Atobe like he's some wilting flower. "I think…maybe home." He needs to lie down and not move for a few hours at least. 

 

Atobe nods. “It’s for the best. Charles will take you home.” 

 

He pauses before leaving Tezuka to the tender mercies of the chauffeur, and gives him another quick kiss, just for good measure. “I’ll call. Or you can call me, any time.” _My beloved rival._

 

Tezuka vows that he is not going to fall over. _Vows_. "I hate phones," he mutters, but otherwise, doesn't argue. 

 

He has to get himself together before he turns back up at his house, lest his grandfather send the entire police force after the Atobe Directorate's heir for making him act like a sloppy drunk. 

 

~

 

There’s a soft knock at the door, the kind only Tezuka Ayana gives before entering. Usually, it’s a brisk soft knock and then an entrance, but this time, she waits patiently on the other side of the door. “Kunimitsu? Are you awake?” Even for a Saturday, 8am is usually late enough that her son is up and doing some sort of homework.

 

Homework isn't the focus at the moment, though that's normally a balm to his nerves. Today, Tezuka can't even focus on a single book, and that's just stressful. "Yes--did you need something, Kaasan?" he calls back, leaning back in his desk chair. Maybe he should just go out. Tennis. Right. If he drowns himself in tennis, that's…better.

 

Ayana enters, relieved, and lays a hand on her son’s hair. “Come with me, I want to show you something,” she calls, leading him down the hall to the washing machine.

 

"What--"

 

Ah.

 

No. 

 

They _really_ don't need to have this conversation. Not now, not ever.

 

Tezuka starts firmly backtracking. "I have a _lot_ of homework I should be working on." 

 

A hand shoots out, firm and swift and trained by the same self-defense expert that has trained Tezuka, and drags him down the hallway. “I was just wondering,” she says gently, despite the fact that she’s moving him bodily down the hall when he’s a good foot and a half taller than she, “whether you might want to start doing your own laundry in the morning. I’ll show you how to work the machine.”

 

" _Kaasan_ \--" It's his last weak, somewhat terrified reply before he gives up, slumping tiredly and letting her haul him along. It's only fair, he supposes. It's _embarrassing_ , but why should his mother have to deal with something that's definitely his fault? _No_ , Tezuka firmly decides, it isn't his fault. It's _Atobe's_. Atobe is responsible for the repeated need to wash his sheets _every morning_ for the past week and a half. Even avoiding his phone calls apparently was not helping. "I…yes. That…would be good…"

 

“See, you just put the sheets--or underwear, or whatever--in here,” she says firmly, determined to make it as not-awkward as possible, “and push power, then the size of the load, and start. It’s done in 35 minutes, isn’t that great? You used to help me hang up the laundry, and you can certainly reach the drying racks better than I can, so you know how to do that just fine. Do you need me to show you again?”

 

"No, I've got it. Photographic memory." 

 

Tezuka takes that opportunity to escape, and _lock_ his bedroom door. It's a good thing that he's not of the mind to fashion a noose out of his bedsheets today (they're already in the _washing machine)_ , especially when his phone has five missed calls. Fine, then.

 

**To: Atobe Keigo**

**Subject: This is your fault.**

**See subject.**

 

It should be no surprise, then, when the phone rings after about 3.5 seconds.

 

Tezuka glares at it before actually flipping it open this time. "I hate phones. I _did_ warn you."

 

“When I said that I would call you if you didn’t call me,” Atobe drawls, “I had rather assumed you knew I wanted you to _pick up_ , my dear Kunimitsu.”

 

“Kunimitsu?” his mother’s voice carries through the doorway. “Honey, if you want to talk about growing-up problems…”                                                                       

 

"I would genuinely rather die, Kaasan," Tezuka miserably tosses towards the door before scowling back into the phone. "I had nothing to say. I _never_ have anything to say on the phone."

 

“Okay, well, if you change your mind...I _have_ had experience around adult male parts before, you know!”

 

“If you’d prefer not to speak on the phone, I can send a car,” Atobe offers. He’s definitely not awaiting a reply with baited breath, hoping that Tezuka hasn’t changed his mind so definitively that there’s nothing he can say.

 

"I'm going to die a boring carpenter, Kaasan, so it's all very unnecessary. Please remember this." God, if only that were true, especially when Atobe wants to send a _car_ to _pick him up_. Tezuka groans and tries not to suffocate himself with a pillow. "Fine. Just…do that." 

 

“He’s on the way.” Atobe hovers for a moment, then refrains from adding that he’s excited to see the other boy. Those are things he says when people _call him_ back.

 

He hangs up, flopping back onto his bed uselessly. Then, hardly a minute later, he opens the door to his bedroom. “Georgette, make something ridiculously traditional Japanese for lunch, something appalling and seafood-like. Harold, give Beat a bath, keep him downstairs until further notice. Alexander, when Charles comes back with his guest, have him shown directly to my bedroom, do _not_ allow any of Father’s friends to see him when you pass by the conference hall, take him by the servant’s quarters if you have to. And someone fluff my pillows with lavender oils!”

 

Perhaps four minutes later, Ayana knocks again. “Boring carpenter-san, there’s a man in a tuxedo here for you.”

 

He's going to _have_ to tell Atobe to start making these kinds of things…more subtle. 

 

"Just don't tell Ojiisan that I'm being kidnapped," Tezuka mutters, dragging his tennis bag along when he escapes. He can just imagine that--his grandfather cornering Atobe, interrogating him like he's a murderer--

 

This is why he is most certainly not dateable material in any way, shape, or form. 

 

The ride, at least, is short enough that he doesn't have to spend too much time agonizing about what to say or do when he sees Atobe again. Even still, it's strange to show back up and be _welcomed_ at Atobe's mansion--though there isn't a dog that climbs him like a tree this time. Oddly disappointing, that, but there is a very angry cat that seems to like skulking in corners. 

 

This time, he's guided directly to Atobe's bedroom…which is _far_ more of a small house than an actual bedroom. "Next time," he tiredly says, setting his bag down, "can the car in question be more…subdued? The look on my mother's face was a little…" 

 

Atobe winces. “My apologies, I’ll try to be more discreet. The only other car in the area was a limousine--I confess, I don’t always think of the hovering mother factor.” _Having never had one myself,_ rings silently. 

 

He offers a smile, gesturing around himself. “Welcome to my room. Don’t take it as a forward nature, my father has a business meeting downstairs and I wanted to preserve your modesty.”

 

"She's rarely hovering, it's just…lately." He's not going to bring this up, even if it's Atobe's fault. Instead, Tezuka just sighs. "Whatever. It's fine. We can agree now that contact via phone is not going to work." 

 

“Apparently not. Would you prefer smoke signals, or shall I just start sending carrier pigeons?” Atobe feels he’s being entirely reasonable after being solidly blown off and ignored for more than a week. After all, phone contact would require Tezuka to make a modicum of effort, something that is clearly too much to ask.

 

"Carrier pigeons would certainly be original. If we were closer to the ocean, perhaps messages in a bottle." 

 

Atobe sits on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, back bowed. “You don’t have to make excuses to me, you know. I told you, I expect nothing from you. I’m interested in nothing less than 100 percent interest and consent. If I frightened you…”

 

"You didn't." Tezuka gingerly takes a seat in a chair that is _far_ too squishy. Or perhaps it's squishy and soft enough, who knows, but it's really unnatural. "…Mostly, I was embarrassed. At the way I reacted." He glances down, analyzing carpet. "Everything afterwards didn't help, either. Combine that with the fact that I genuinely _don't_ like conversing in the first place, especially on the phone--whatever. I'll just send a text next time so you know that I'm alive." 

 

“Alive,” Atobe prompts, “is good. _Still interested_ is better. You could have simply shown up at my house if you wanted to speak in person.” He scratches at the back of his neck. “You don’t have anything to be embarrassed about. I’ll take all the blame for being a pervert if it makes you feel better. Believe me, the thoughts I’ve been having…”

 

"Just showing up seems a bit too forward," Tezuka mutters, glancing aside again. "And if I wasn't _still interested_ , I would have told you to leave me alone. Besides, I'm fairly certain you've turned me into a worse pervert, so it is what it is at this point." 

 

And there go Atobe’s hormones.

 

He stands, eyes dark and intent, and makes his way to Tezuka’s seat on the chair, bracing an arm on the back of the chair behind him. “Ahn?” he asks, leaning down until they’re nearly touching. He can feel the heat of Tezuka from so close, but waits, waits to touch. “Tell me about how I’ve turned you into such a pervert with just one kiss.”

 

Somehow, just with that, his face is hot and his skin practically tingling. This is worse than how he wakes up every single morning. "That was more than one kiss," he attempts practically. "And it isn't like I _remember_ the dreams. Or that they make _sense_." One too many trashy novels, that's for sure. He needs to stop reading literally everything.

 

Thinking about Tezuka having dreams _like that_ about him—

 

Yeah, that’ll do.

 

Atobe’s knees hit the seat on either side of Tezuka’s hips, and his hands come to rest on surprisingly broad shoulders, gripping him firmly. He leans down, brushing their lips just barely together, more to breathe the breath of him than anything, and murmurs, “I’ll give you something much better than dreams, my dear Kunimitsu.”

 

Tezuka just…kind of sags.

 

It's all kinds of a relief to be able to melt like that. If anything, it seems like that's the kind of reaction Atobe wants, and that's _good_ , because Tezuka isn't sure he could manage anything else. The sound that escapes from his throat is a strangled groan, and reflex brings his hands up, sliding down the curve of Atobe's spine before slipping lower and unrepentantly curling over the curve of his ass to drag him closer. It's a lot easier to touch this time, and even if he doesn't remember his dreams entirely, they've certainly given him a lot of fodder. 

 

Yes, good.

 

Best foot forward, as it were, and Atobe knows quite well that he has a fantastic ass.

 

By virtue of excellent positioning, Atobe finds himself straddling Tezuka, the warmth of his body seeping into his own, and he’s nowhere near as shy or hesitant about this kiss (though if memory serves, he’d hardly been that before). He nips at Tezuka’s bottom lip, tugging on it with his teeth as he leans back, settling his hips firmly into Tezuka’s lap. “God, you’re nothing but bones,” he says, amused against Tezuka’s lips.

 

"Sorry," is the shaky exhale to follow. Tezuka's eyes flutter, his head lolling back against the chair cushions when he finally manages to breathe again--though not very deeply, and not very _well_. It's impossible when he has a lap full of Atobe, apparently, because his mind clicks off and--….it's not like he's ever _looked_ before, but Atobe's ass fits _very_ nicely in his hands. "You're like a furnace," he mutters in return accusation, because it's true. Atobe is far warmer than Tezuka ever would have imagined him being. 

 

Atobe almost protests, but it isn’t as if _you’re nothing but bones_ is a compliment, so he supposes it’s fair. Tezuka could at least have said he was a _sexy_ furnace or something, but he’s willing to give a pass as long as the other boy’s hands are so nice.

 

 _Gently_ , he reminds himself, and _slowly_. It won’t do to scare Tezuka away now, not when he’s so new and Atobe wants him so badly. It’s almost a surprise, to find how true that is. Every kiss is a little deeper, a little longer, until he pulls away to see Tezuka’s lips bruised and shiny and swollen red. The sight makes him groan, and he rocks his hips slowly, rubbing down against Tezuka. “Stop me any time,” he says, eyes burning. “Or I probably won’t stop, fair warning.”

 

Even if Atobe is shorter than him, Tezuka is very certain that he's heavier, and that's _good_. The weight of Atobe in his lap is enough to make him strangle down another noise (or ten) and he has to shiver and try not to squirm when their hips press together like that. He should probably be more embarrassed about how hard he is from this alone, but Atobe certainly doesn't seem to be, so who cares. "I don't want you to stop," he rasps, lurching up for another kiss--not entirely accurate, but it gets the point across of _don't stop kissing me, either_. 

 

The feeling of Tezuka pressing firm and hot up against his hips is good, good enough to make him dizzy and drunk on it. Atobe kisses like he’s hungry, hands coming up to tangle in Tezuka’s hair as he rocks down. “Good,” he groans between kisses, slurred and urgent. “Don’t think I can.”

 

He probably could, if Tezuka looked freaked out or terrified. With Tezuka pliant and _hard_ under him, it’s pretty much impossible. Willpower is all well and good, but only when it prevents him from doing something bad. Sometimes temptation leads him into something excellent, and Atobe can’t think of anything better than succumbing.

 

The way Atobe kisses him is better than _anything._

 

Tezuka can't help but whimper. Every ragged exhale of breath makes his glasses fog up, and he finally gives up on them, reaching up a hand to shakily push them up and out of the way. It makes kissing easier, especially when his vision is blurring anyway, and it gives him an excuse to grab at the front of Atobe's shirt and haul him closer when he sinks back down into the chair.  

 

Time to show Tezuka that this chair is more of a chaise lounge.

 

Atobe pulls the lever on the side, and the back of the chair reclines, giving him ample room to climb on top of Tezuka, stretching out to press their bodies together, the full length of him dragging against Tezuka’s taller frame. _You don’t kiss like a virgin_ is on the tip of his tongue, but far more interesting is everything else going on with his tongue--namely, that it’s dragging against Tezuka’s lips, tasting and flicking, drinking in every moan he gets.

 

Briefly, Tezuka has to wonder if this counts as being dipped, a la trashy romance novel number five that he read three days ago. 

 

Probably. That's fine, though, because it's surprisingly good, though he should be more embarrassed about the way he likes to squirm underneath Atobe's weight and the things that his mouth is doing. As it is, he's not, and he gingerly, shakily wraps a hand up into Atobe's hair instead, swallowing down another, broken noise when his legs shift and a thigh  draws up between Atobe's legs. _Just as hard as he is_ , Tezuka's mind processes, and that makes his breath catch up into his chest. 

 

God. Tezuka is _his_. 

 

Atobe feels it, the heady rush of knowledge that he could do just about anything to Tezuka right now. That’s shorted out a bit by how hard he is, and how much he _needs_. “I know,” he groans, rubbing down against Tezuka with every breath, “you haven’t done this before, so just…”

 

He has to pause to kiss Tezuka deeply again, because nothing else in the world feels quite as good. When he comes up for air, he continues, “Just be as honest with me as you can. Teach me what you like, when I do it to you.”

 

Verbally agreeing takes effort that Tezuka can't quite muster right then, not when he can lurch up and let his cock grind slowly against Atobe's hip. "Doesn't matter," he finally manages to piece together, clutching a little at Atobe's back, his breaths ragged against his mouth when he tries to kiss back and not just whine when his cock throbs. "Just-- _please_ \--" Admitting that _everything feels good, I don't care what you do_ is probably more perverted than anything, but begging can't be much better--but it makes him ache, and that's _good_. 

 

Tezuka is _gone_.

 

Atobe knows that look of complete surrender, but he’s never seen it this _early_. The power he holds--has been given--is enough to go to his head, and he lurches down, grinding hard against the other boy, pulling away just long enough to fumble with the fastenings of Tezuka’s pants, deftly undoing them and shoving them _down_. 

 

His hand is sure and firm when he wraps it around the length of him, hot and hard and heavy in his grasp, and he slides his hand down in a smooth pull, rubbing his thumb over the head. “You want to get messy?” he murmurs, and leans down to kiss him again, stealing his breath and his words, wanting to feel the _tremble_ that will go through Tezuka when he comes. Time to learn what kind of stamina he has, the Captain of Seigaku that Atobe’s been fantasizing about for so long. (Time to see which fantasy of many is true.)

 

Tezuka doesn't expect that to feel so _good_.

 

His own hand has been one thing, and only something he's irritably _dealt with_ in the past couple of weeks, truth be told. Maybe that makes him less than normal for a teenage boy, but he's never _cared_. Atobe's hand is something else, though--surprisingly smooth, warm, and he alreadyseems to know the exact right way to stroke and pull. It makes him arch right off the chair, clutching at Atobe's back, a broken, ragged noise lost against Atobe's mouth. He should definitely be more embarrassed about the way his legs spread and heels dig in to have more leverage to just grind up against that touch, but… 

 

If Atobe was going to make fun of him for any of this, he would have already. 

 

 _A little more_ is something Tezuka wants to beg for, but apparently, that's unnecessary when Atobe's fingers slide tight and insistent around him. He lurches up with a breathless groan, clinging to Atobe's shirt when he comes, the almost-taunt of Atobe's words ringing in his ears. _Yes, make me a mess, please,_ please. 

 

“God, Kunimitsu, you beautiful thing,” Atobe groans, drinking in every sound that comes through Tezuka’s lips, every catch of his breath, every lurching spasm of his muscles. The jerking twitches of his cock are so arousing Atobe feels himself throb with every spurt, the wet heat seeming so much more secret, so much more _lewd_ than it ever has with anyone else. 

 

Really, Atobe can’t be blamed if he’s already addicted after just one hit.

 

He grinds up, teeth closing over the lobe of Tezuka’s ear, and nips sharply at it before saying in a husky whisper, “I’m going to make you do that again and again, until--fuck, until you just _give up_.” His cock aches, and he grinds the heel of his palm firmly down against it. _Not now. Busy. Soon_.

 

Tezuka's eyes roll back as he groans weakly, jerking up against Atobe's touch helplessly. His cock _aches_ with the idea of it, and it's definitely too much to think of being hard again so soon, but damned if it isn't trying against every desperate protest he can think of. 

 

Atobe's still so hard against him that those protests start to die away in his mind, and the way his voice rumbles in his ear…Tezuka swallows around a whimper, his skin flushing hot as he just settles for melting down into the cushions anew. "But…" He's not the biggest fan of how his own voice sounds, weak around the edges and very, very shaky. One hand reaches out, pawing a little at Atobe's hip. "What about you?" 

 

Atobe’s touches turn gentle--well, gentler--as soon as Tezuka starts coming down from that high, stroking and caressing, nuzzling into his neck. “Not about give and take,” he breathes, though he doesn’t exactly move Tezuka’s hand away. “I’m not just trying to come as fast as I can, Kunimitsu. You’re something…”

 

He fumbles for words for a moment, and raises up on one arm to look down into Tezuka’s face. His expression softens, and he brushes fingertips over sharp cheekbones. “You’re something to be cherished.”

 

 _You're making this weird_ Tezuka wants to tell him, but that requires a whole lot of effort and…ugh, he sort of likes hearing it. That makes him fairly weird, too, he supposes. He turns his head aside instead, butting his face into the palm of Atobe's hand. "Never even thought about this kind of thing before," he admits. "Not before you." 

 

Well, Atobe can hardly be blamed for the way that goes straight to his ego, he’s pretty sure. Compliments like that from men like this are few and far between, and he basks in it for a moment. “Maybe no one else was worthy to be here with you.” He smiles, and kisses Tezuka softly, a gentle brush of his lips. “The thought of you with someone who doesn’t appreciate you is a highly unappetizing thought, you know. I find myself quite unfond of it.”

 

"Don't like anyone else," Tezuka mutters, lurching up to kiss Atobe back. "So that's not going to happen." 

 

This feels official. It’s usually not far from the moment that Atobe excuses himself for very important matters, only to send the rare text message whenever he’s in town and wants to have a quick romp. 

 

But…

 

It’s been two years, and he’s still considerably less than bored.

 

He leans down and kisses Tezuka again, then starts unbuttoning his shirt. “No, it never will. Let me see you, Kunimitsu. I want to taste your skin.”

 

Taking his clothes off around another boy _shouldn't_ make his skin heat up like this. 

 

Tezuka exhales a huff of breath, lifting a still-shaky hand to start working at his own shirt's buttons. Only now is he aware that he's something of a sweaty, sticky mess, and that probably shouldn't make his cock twitch like it does, but whatever. He's already starting to get used to the fact that Atobe pushes a dozen buttons that he never knew he had. 

 

Atobe leans back, watching appreciatively as every inch of skin is revealed. “It’s different from the locker room, isn’t it?” he asks, following every movement. True to his word, he leans down, swiping his tongue across Tezuka’s collarbone, dragging his fingers down that toned (too-thin) torso. “Ah, you don’t have any hair at all.”

 

"Neither do you." Atobe's fingers make him shift and squirm, even as he shrugs his way out of his shirt. "No one watches me like this in the locker room," Tezuka mutters, pointedly forgetting about Fuji Shuusuke. 

 

“I have more than you do,” Atobe admits. That’s _not_ his Japanese heritage. He strips off his own shirt, and brings one of Tezuka’s hands to his abdomen, letting him feel the soft down trail leading to his waistband. “See?”

 

That's another thing that shouldn't turn him on as much as it does. Probably. Tezuka's breath hiccups, and his fingers slowly curl, hooking into Atobe's waistband before he can help himself. "And here I was pretty sure you dyed your hair. Are you _sure_ you have any Japanese in you?" 

 

Atobe lets himself be tugged forward, flicking the top button open with a lazy movement of one hand. “Half. The rest is vastly more hirsute, as you can see. You’re welcome to decide for yourself whether the color is natural or not. You’re not far from a hint.”

 

Tezuka huffs at him, somewhat unsure about proceeding now that he's the one tugging Atobe forward…but he's not going to hesitate _now_ , of all times. His fingers curl and tug, easing Atobe's pants  down over his hips, and--all right, any dye-job has been close _enough_ to his natural hair color. That's less interesting than the way his fingers twitch with the urge to touch Atobe's cock, definitely bigger and especially thicker than his own. 

 

Atobe is usually _quite_ good at suppressing any urge to spend himself quickly. Just now, he bites his lip, hands coming up to Tezuka’s shoulders to steady himself, determined not to break that habit just because Tezuka has the nicest fingers he’s ever felt, though they _are_ a bit chilly. The look of rapt fascination on Tezuka’s face is enough to make him twitch, a firm reminder that he, at least, hasn’t spent himself yet. “Taste it,” he urges, fingers tugging at Tezuka’s hair. “Just once, you can stop if you don’t like it. I want to feel your mouth.”

 

The _problem_ is that Tezuka can't help but lick his lips, and just the idea of it makes his own cock almost entirely hard again. 

 

He's not going to say that, though. _Admitting_ he's a complete pervert is different than just acting like one, Tezuka figures. He instead settles for a short nod of agreement, his fingers curling around Atobe's hips, shakily, hesitantly tugging him up a bit more before his lips brush over the very tip of Atobe's cock, his tongue flicking out shortly afterwards. 

 

Salty and slick and bitter and _heavy_ on his tongue--none of those things should make him choke on a groan, or make him part his lips for more. This is Atobe's fault. Tezuka has long settled upon that fact. 

 

Well, the _plan_ had been to check and ensure that Tezuka is all right, that he’s having a good time and not hating life. Unfortunately, the fact that Tezuka is moaning like a whore at his first taste of dick pretty much shorts out Atobe’s ability to do anything of the kind.

 

His hands tangle in soft brown hair, and he lurches forward, rubbing the head over Tezuka’s tongue, trying to breathe when he’s so lightheaded from just the sight of it. “Look how good you are at this already,” he murmurs, hoping belatedly that Tezuka doesn’t mind dirty talk. It’s kind of a habit at this point. “God, if you could see the way you look with your lips all stretched out around my cock…”

 

It's fine, because this clarifies that Atobe is a dozen times more perverted than he is. It makes it a lot easier to just relax and give in to the idea that he really _does_ like this, even though his jaw hurts just taking the head of Atobe's cock into his mouth. It drips down his tongue, and Tezuka swallows raggedly around the taste, his eyes fluttering shut as his face flushes hot. Stupid, ridiculous, really, that the _praise_ makes him that much more eager, but… 

 

He'd be a liar to say he didn't like it, and his hands clutching at Atobe's hips, his tongue dragging over the head of his cock to taste more does little to hide that fact. 

 

Atobe is fairly certain that nothing is better than this. 

 

His cock is as hard as he can ever remember it being, fingers grabbing and tugging at Tezuka’s hair, sliding in inch by inch, never too far, shallow little thrusts that feel good but let him hold back. “You’re doing such a good job, you feel so good,” he breathes, brushing the hair out of Tezuka’s face so he can see him that much better, take in that flushed face, the saliva and precome dripping down his chin, the glazed look in his eyes. 

 

_Fuck, I’ve got to take care of him. I doubt he’ll take care of himself._

 

Before Tezuka has a chance to get sick of it, Atobe pulls out, sitting back on his knees. “Don’t wear yourself out too fast,” he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, slow strokes keeping him in the moment without taking him too far. “You want to be able to move your jaw tomorrow.”

 

"I don't care."

 

In the back of his mind, Tezuka dimly realizes that's probably a stupid thing not to care about, but he misses the way his lips feel stretched around Atobe's cock, the way his jaw _does_ already ache, the bitter, masculine taste on his tongue. He reaches out, his hand needy when it curls over Atobe's, tugging, just a little. "Please." His face is hot enough that he thinks he might die from that alone, just because he's asking for something so lewd. "I don't…I don't mind." 

 

Atobe’s voice locks up for a minute, and he lets out a strangled groan, leaning forward to grab Tezuka’s face and kiss him hard before pulling away and shoving the other boy’s face _down_. “Now you’ve got to,” he rasps, shoving his cock back into Tezuka’s mouth as it pulses and twitches. “Because hearing you beg like that is going to make me come in your mouth a lot faster than I want to.” God, he’s _close_.

 

He'd be the worst liar to say that didn't make his own cock harder still. 

 

Fortunately, he doesn't have to say anything. His mouth is full of Atobe's cock, much fuller than before, because Atobe isn't as careful this time and god, but Tezuka _does_ like that against all good judgement. He's glad that his groans are muffled when Atobe shoves in too deep, too fast, and he can't help but gag, though before that gets too bad, he swallows hard, his eyes rolling back when that just makes him taste Atobe even more. 

 

Atobe is quite certain that he’s never had his cock sucked more _enthusiastically_ than by Tezuka Kunimitsu, and that’s the last straw. He gasps out a curse in some language (not sure which), back bowed so he’s bent over Tezuka’s head, trying not to thrust in _too_ frantically and failing, cock bumping against the back of Tezuka’s throat and making him gag, and those noises just make him come harder.

 

There’s a lot--it’s been a while, and he’s never been called less than virile. Atobe barely retails the presence of mind to slump backwards instead of forwards, collapsing back onto his hands and leaving Tezuka coughing and dripping.

 

He’ll apologize once he stops being _quite_ so spent.

 

If Atobe wanted to make a mess of him, it's now, more so than ever. 

 

It's not even _just_ the fact that he's coughing no matter how he tries to thoughtlessly swallow, missing a good portion of it and lifting a shaky hand to weakly wipe his mouth afterwards (still bitter and salty, but he doesn't care). It's also the fact that somewhere in the middle of everything, he _definitely_ came again himself, and Tezuka isn't sure if he should feel embarrassed about it or just blissfully pass out because he's never felt more lightheaded in his entire life. 

 

He decides to just give up instead, flopping back bonelessly, shuddering and shutting his eyes as his chest heaves. 

 

Atobe’s lashes flutter open, and he sees the way Tezuka convulses a bit before laying back down. Just the _thought_ of that, that Tezuka came from sucking him off, makes him groan weakly as his cock attempts to twitch back to life. _Give me a second_ , he thinks at it, knowing it won’t be nearly as long as usual. “My dear Kunimitsu,” he says, slurring just a little, “you are…exquisite.”

 

Tezuka just focuses on breathing normally. "Is sex _always_ like that?" he dimly manages. If it is, he's not sure he's going to survive for very long. 

 

Atobe’s heart gives a little flutter. Dangerous, that. “No,” he says truthfully. “Not even with me. You’re something special, _mon p’tit chou_.”

 

Atobe usually just makes his head hurt, but right now, he feels more relaxed than he has in a long, long time. _I doubt it's me, but thank you_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Tezuka foregoes that in lieu of just grabbing at Atobe to curl up against him. That's a better response, he thinks. 

 

That’s it, really. Atobe swallows hard, and takes Tezuka into his arms. _Well…I could have fallen for a lot worse, in the end._

 

～

 

Atobe isn’t exactly _angry_.

 

At least, he’s not exactly angry at _Tezuka_. In his situation, he’d have done the exact same thing, probably.

 

That doesn’t mean he feels _good_ about it, or about the part he himself had played. That’s why he sends the car, and why he waits, trying not to pace, until Tezuka shows up in the (slightly less conspicuous) car. 

 

Every grimace he sees makes him feel guilty, and that more than anything is what makes him angry. _Why did you make me injure you? Why did you make me see you hurt like that?_

 

But he knows the answers, and it’s only a helpless, upset feeling instead of a true anger. It really was a fantastic game, and he’ll probably never have another like it.

 

Nor, unfortunately, will Tezuka. 

 

“Did you at least get what you wanted?” he asks, voice slightly unsteady.

 

Escaping Oishi after the match had been something akin to performing an exorcism. Escaping his parents after he had arrived home was something else entirely, and his grandfather a level above that. Tezuka supposes he feels guilty, in a way, for leaving at the first opportunity (that car is there, anyway, and he has no choice when it's there). They're worried about him, setting appointments with doctors and therapists already, and there's a fear in the pit of his belly that sings of _what if this is it, what if you'll never be able to play again because of this._

 

But he brought it on himself, so he has no one else to blame. 

 

In a way, that's better.

 

There's a heat wrap plastered to his shoulder now, at least, and that takes away the throbbing ache somewhat. What makes it twinge anew, however, isn't the way that he moves his arm in his sling, but the way that Atobe _looks at him_. Tezuka swallows, contemplates shrugging, then thinks the better of it. Atobe deserves more than a shrug, anyway, even if he could accomplish it without sort of falling over again.

 

"If you mean a real match with you, then yes." 

 

“I thought you were magnificent.” It’s hard to explain away the reverence, the furious pride in his voice, and Atobe doesn’t even try. “That game...meant more to me than going to the finals, Kunimitsu.”

 

"Coming from you, that means quite a lot." Tezuka hesitates before inclining his head. "Thank you, for really _playing_." He's under no illusions. He's so very, very sure that anyone other than Atobe (except perhaps Sanada) would have backed down the moment they realized he was still injured. That wasn't what he wanted, not at all. 

 

Atobe gives him a brief smile. “I’m not sure you should be thanking me for it, but I couldn’t have done anything less. Not for you.” Not once he’d seen how far Tezuka was willing to go. “Tell me you’re going now.”

 

"My parents want me to go to Kyushu." Tezuka glances up, holding Atobe's gaze. "But you said something about Germany before. I'm asking your opinion, Keigo. Do you think my chances of returning for Nationals would be better if I went there?" 

 

Atobe’s chest aches, and not from the match. His shoulders and back and legs ache from the match, but it’s by far a different pain. “I do.” He swallows hard, then looks away. “And if I’m recommending that you go so far I won’t see you for weeks, you know it’s in your best interests.”

 

"…I'll answer phone calls." All right, that's not entirely true. "Well--I'll try to." Tezuka sighs, listing a little to one side. "You're not going to cry alone in your bathtub if I leave, are you?" That's happened in a _few_ books he's read, he's sure of it.

 

The look of affront on Atobe’s face is complete. “You can think about that comment when you’re stranded with nothing but men named _Hans_ who eat fatty sausages and sauerkraut for every meal,” he says loftily. “If you don’t answer your phone, I’ll take the jet over to see you some weekend.”

 

"I'll try to answer it," Tezuka repeats dryly, still not entirely convinced by Atobe's offended attitude about the crying thing. He'll probably still cry. "Can you text me all of the information later? I don't think convincing my parents to let me go will be that difficult, but my grandfather is something else entirely." 

 

“I’ll have it to you tonight.” Atobe’s smile wavers, and he moves closer, reaching out a hand to pluck at a strand of Tezuka’s hair. “You _will_ be careful? It’s going to be something of a culture shock for you, even if you speak some German.”

 

"I'm not going there to be a tourist. I'm just going there to recover." A sigh, and Tezuka leans forward, hooking his chin over Atobe's shoulder. "I'll be fine." He has to say it, or Atobe will never be quiet about it, he knows. 

 

Atobe closes his eyes, breathing in that clean crisp smell of athlete and dusty books with a hint of clear mountain spring that is Tezuka. After their match, it’s quite a bit heavier on the “athlete” than usual, but that’s all fine. “Good. Just come back better.” His words are slightly muffled into Tezuka’s shoulder, and he’s probably hugging him slightly too tightly.

 

Tezuka's head turns, his face partially burying into Atobe's hair--an ashier blond this week, which was brought about with some proclamation about it being a victorious shade. Well, he wasn't wrong. "It wasn't your fault," he quietly says, because he's fairly certain Atobe needs to hear that, too. 

 

That shouldn’t be the thing that makes his eyes burn, but it is. Atobe buries his face in Tezuka’s shoulder, taking in a deep breath before he nods. “Stubborn ass. Don’t make me hurt you again, I don’t enjoy it.”

 

His good arm comes around Atobe's waist, squeezing back tightly. "It was already mostly like this. It wasn't your fault." That probably doesn't make it any better, but, well, there was an attempt. "With any luck, the next time we play, it'll be completely healed." 

 

Atobe shakes his head, sighing as he pulls back to give Tezuka a swift kiss. “Knowing you, you’ll play me no matter what, if you think it’s in the best interests of your team. I can’t even blame you. I’d probably do the same damn thing.” He snorts. “Martyrs, both of us.”

 

"The difference is that you've thick bones," Tezuka deadpans, pulling back to push up his glasses. "I've seen them in your baby pictures."

 

Atobe lets out a noise something like that of a hissing cat. “I thought you were going to pretend you’d never seen those,” he mutters. “I should teach you a lesson in manners. I _would_ , if I thought you were well enough to handle it.”

 

"When I come home," Tezuka says placatingly. "In the meantime, you should hide those baby books from your mother more thoroughly. You don't know what other kinds of guests she might show them to."

 

Atobe makes a noise of long suffering. “Yes, yes. You’d better not find yourself in the arms of some _German_ , Kunimitsu.” He flops down onto the loveseat, looking rather put-out. “You’ll come home with worse taste in beer than your grandfather has.”

 

"I doubt either will happen. I seem to prefer those of some undocumented Mediterranean descent, apparently." Tezuka sighs at him before walking over, leaning down, and pressing a kiss to the top of Atobe's head. "I'm going to head home before everyone starts to think I've committed suicide by jumping in front of a train. Thank you again, Keigo." 

 

“I’ll miss you.” 

 

He doesn’t meet Tezuka’s eyes, and is more than a little embarrassed to say it. Then he looks up, hesitant to ask, but wanting to know the answer. “Do you want me to wait for you? I won’t be upset either way.”

 

Tezuka gives him an exasperated look as he straightens. "You'll be bored out of your mind, and I don't want to be eaten alive when I come back. Do what you want; just don't tell me about it." 

 

There’s not nearly as much relief as he’d been expecting to feel. Instead, there’s just a sad lonely little feeling that hurts when he pokes it, like a toothache. Hell, he’ll probably just mess around with Jirou to keep in practice, if anything. “Be safe, Kunimitsu. I’m going to harass you on the phone.”

 

"I can't wait," is Tezuka's less than enthusiastic response. 

 

(If nothing else, Germany is an escape from his team--which, he tiredly realizes, he really, really does need.)

 


	13. The Flashback Chapter: Sanada & Yukimura, Yanagi & Kirihara

_Two Years Ago_

 

Her name is Karasumi Mikoto, and she’s in his class. She’s sweet, as far as that goes, though it doesn’t do much for him when she offers him chocolate and a little love note under a tree.

 

It’s not his first confession, which is baffling to Sanada every time it happens. It had taken him quite a while to understand that yes, those _were_ confessions, and yes, it _is_ rude not to respond to them. This time, he’s prepared.

 

“I’m sorry, Karasumi-san,” he says, with a grave bow. “I’m already seeing someone, but I appreciate the gesture.”

 

She doesn’t cry, which is one of the biggest reliefs he’s ever had, and simply excuses herself. Sanada sits down under the tree, pulling out his calligraphy set and setting to work.

 

It's not like Yukimura _stalks_ that confession tree or anything. It's just that Niou recommended he watch out for it today, because apparently there's a girl in Sanada's class that _likes him_. 

 

Hmmm. 

 

The theory holds up, but the _excuse_ doesn't quite…make _sense_. Yukimura refrains from growling about it just yet, but he doesn't refrain from popping out from behind the tree and taking a seat on one of Sanada's shoulders. " _Seeing_ someone, huh?" It's always upsetting when Sanada takes his hat off for school dress code purposes. Otherwise, he'd steal it right now. "That's new, Genichirou." 

 

He's not jealous. He's _not_. 

 

Sanada scowls down at his paper, where the third stroke suspiciously darts off to the side. “You’re messing up my calligraphy, Seiichi. Why did you come to talk about nonsense things?”

 

Yukimura settles more of his weight onto Sanada, because now he's feeling spiteful. "Because now I'm curious. Who is it? Karasumi was cute, is your girlfriend even cuter?" 

 

Sanada shifts, not that Yukimura weighs all _that_ much, but it’s plenty to rest on just one shoulder. “Don’t be stupid. You know I don’t have a girlfriend.”

 

It's the shock of that forward admission that makes Yukimura slowly slide off of Sanada's shoulder and to the ground with a thump. " _Boyfriend_ , then?" Even having known Sanada for eight years, he'd _never_ expected Sanada to admit it so forwardly. He frowns, that irritating twinge of jealousy even worse now. "Who?" 

 

Sanada packs up his calligraphy set, annoyed. He carefully caps the bottle, fits it into its compartment, and rolls up the paper before shutting the wooden case with a _snap_. “Are you mad at me or something?”

 

Yukimura scowls at him. This is ruining a good number of his plans--more, if he really sits and thinks about it, which he is _certainly_ doing right now. "I think I'm allowed to be. Does _Renji_ know?"

 

Sanada fidgets a bit, uncomfortable with this line of questioning. “W-well, I couldn’t really keep it from him,” he admits. “He doesn’t care, though! I mean, about the whole boy-boy thing, he understands. I don’t think he’ll say anything.”

 

"That's not the point! How could you tell him when you didn't tell me?" Yukimura huffs, folding his arms over his chest. "Who _else_ knows?"

 

Sanada stops, and blinks. His head tilts slowly to the side, and he asks, “Why should I tell you about it? I didn’t think I had to.”

 

Yukimura _gapes,_ his face the very picture of offense taken. "I thought you were my best friend! You're supposed to tell me _everything_ , Genichirou! I tell _you_ everything, even when you get really weird and annoying about my eating habits!" 

 

Sanada sits down, confused enough that he’s not quite sure he can handle this conversation anymore. “Seiichi, I only thought I had to--I mean--but that doesn’t make any sense! Why should I have to tell _you_ that you’re my boyfriend?” Yukimura is weird sometimes, but this is truly baffling.

 

Wait.

 

 _Wait_.

 

Yukimura stares at him long and hard before slowly, unsteadily turning to grab Sanada's shoulders. "This doesn't make sense," he attempts to piece together, grabbing tighter. "I was supposed to ask _you_ out. When did this happen, how did I _miss it?_ Since when?!"

 

Sanada puts his hands on Yukimura’s waist, steadying him a bit, as he seems rather shaky. “Since about a month ago?” he hazards, even more confused now. “When you asked me to the shrine with you, and I gave you the kanji for _hatsukoi_ , and we shared takoyaki? That was our first date, wasn’t it?” He’d _thought_ it was a pretty nice one, even if it was awfully romantic.

 

A weird, gurgling whine strangles in his throat and Yukimura settles for bodily shaking Sanada. He doesn't move much, which is frustrating. "I was supposed to ask you out after we won _Nationals!_ I had a plan! I always do, you know, and…" He huffs, pathetically flopping forward. "But yeah, that sounds like a first date to me." _Hatsukoi_. Yeah, he should've gotten that one. Well, shit. 

 

“Did I do it wrong?” Sanada’s stomach turns over. “Dammit, I thought I did everything right. What do _you_ want to do? I can stop saying we’re dating until we win Nationals, I’m _sorry_ if I messed it up…” _Please don’t dump me_ , he thinks wildly, lowering Yukimura down to the ground just in case he starts falling when he flails.

 

It's not like he was planning this very carefully and perfectly to insure that it all worked out exactly right or anything, because he's _pretty sure_ that Sanada is the only boy he's ever looked twice at (no, Niou's muscles and pretty face don't count, nor does Roger Federer's outstanding tennis capability, or the fact that Yanagi embodies all that is Japanese elegance, and his foreign art teacher that looks like something out of a Watteau painting _definitely_ doesn't count either). No, normally, it's _girls_ , he likes girls, and that's why this was going to be a big deal, because he was going to ask Japanese-symbol-of-virility Sanada Genichirou out. 

 

Well, whatever.

 

Missing that opportunity is weird, but…it's not like he didn't keep that kanji along with every other kanji Sanada has ever done for him, so… "No, no, no, you didn't mess it up, we're _supposed_ to be dating, it's fine." Yukimura huffs, raking his hair out of his face. "I should have figured it out. This is _my_ mistake, as loathe as I am to admit it--uggghhh, but you can't tell anyone about this, otherwise _everyone_ will laugh." 

 

Sanada fumbles for Yukimura’s hands, clutching them in his own, and squeezes them tightly. “I wouldn’t do that,” he assures Yukimura, and not just because he simply doesn’t like anyone else but Renji. “Sorry, I thought you already _did_ ask me out, and I said yes. Obviously,” he adds, cheeks flushing a little the way they had when they’d climbed all the way up to that shrine, and he’d shyly handed over his offering.

 

" _Genichirou_ \--" Ahhh, he's a failure. Yukimura Seiichi doesn't like being the one that messes up, and he _doesn't_ like knowing that he's missed something as important as this for the past month. Try as he might not to pout about it, it's sort of inevitable. "Whatever! I'm doing it again now! Sort of." That'll fix this. He grabs back at Sanada's hands, squeezing tightly and drawing himself up to his full height (which is not nearly tall enough). "I like you a lot, so you have to _keep_ dating me." 

 

“Y-yes!” It’s a formal acceptance, and that _does_ feel more official than it had before. Sanada feels that it’s important to be dating officially. “Um, how often do we have to ask each other to keep dating? Is it every month?” He’ll have to mark it on his calendar to make sure.

 

"No, it's official now. We don't have to keep asking, that'd be stressful." Yukimura sighs, loosening his grip slightly. "This was just a special case, because there was a misunderstanding. Entirely my fault," he quickly adds before Sanada can start panicking again, "but all the same. _Don't_ mention this to Renji." 

 

Sanada lets out a breath of relief. Fortunately, Yukimura knows all about this kind of thing, so he doesn’t have to stress too hard. “No problem. I can’t believe I forgot to make it official. But now it’s okay.” He looks around, making sure that no one is watching or even nearby, and darts forward to press a quick peck on Yukimura’s cheek. That’s _extremely_ official, he’s sure.

 

Yeah, he'll go with the official part being Sanada's fault.

 

That one little kiss makes Yukimura beam, and--assuming the coast is clear--he lurches up on tiptoe, pressing a kiss to Sanada's cheek in turn. "All right now, come on. We have to go beat a few upperclassmen at tennis, I have a target locked on a few of them for today."

 

~

 

_One Year Ago_

 

Kirihara Akaya has a very, very big problem.

 

All right, _technically_ , it doesn't have to be a big problem. That's what he keeps telling himself, even when he huddles underneath his kotatsu and tries not to think of those times when he was at Yana--er, his _tutor's_ house and underneath _that_ kotatsu and Y--his tutor just kind of kept methodically massaging his toes into his thigh. Or all those times when his _tutor_ kept leaning over his shoulder from behind and breathing on his neck and it should be a natural _reaction_ for his body to--uh--react…that way…

 

He can't spend his winter holidays like this.

 

New Year's Eve rolls around, and it's weird. Everyone on the team says that last year, Yukimura all dragged them out to a shrine. This year, no one really knows what to do, but apparently, Marui has something planned for New Year's, just like he had things planned for Christmas. Either way, practice hasn't been called off--yeah, even during the holidays, because Sanada-fukubuchou is a _slave driver_.

 

At least that's a chance to maybe ask someone who has _experience_ with this kind of thing.

 

"Um. Marui-sempai?" Kirihara lingers a bit, trying not to be too weird about catching the back of Marui's jersey and tugging before he can leave to join the rest of practice. "Can I ask you something? It's important." 

 

“Oi, Jackal! I’ll catch up with you at the fountain,” Marui calls, waving Jackal away before spinning around, popping his bubble. He ruffles Kirihara’s hair, raising an eyebrow. “I’d ask if you need homework help, but you wouldn’t think that’s ‘important,’ right?” Plus, just about anyone else would be better to ask for homework help, if he’s being honest about himself.

 

Kirihara warily watches Jackal's exit, making _sure_ he's gone before he stares plaintively up at Marui. "It's not about homework. It's--look, you, um, girls like you, right? So you've probably had this problem! With girls. Just girls. See, it's about my tutor. She's--well, she's a girl, and she's pretty, and the thing is, sometimes, she's _really_ close to me and it makes things awkward, because--you know." Hand gestures below the belt help. "And it's not like I _want_ that to happen but it _does_ and that's normal, right? And it's not like I can just make it stop, and she's my tutor and I see her at school all the time, too, and we're on the same tennis team together so it's sort of impossible because she's always around and what am I supposed to do?" 

 

Marui opens his mouth, about to say something, and then the rest of Kirihara’s little impromptu speech catches up.

 

_Girls? On the tennis team? Our tennis team? ….how?_

 

And then the _tutor_ part clicks, and it makes sense.

 

“Ohhhhh,” Marui says, relieved to have figured it out. He taps the side of his nose knowingly. “Gotcha. _Girls_.” 

 

Yeah, well, who hasn’t had problems with big muscley “girls” with dicks and no tits sometimes? Tennis is a gay-ass sport, so whatever. “Yeah, I get those issues. Totally normal. Does she, uh have the same issue?”

 

The look on Kirihara's face is pure relief and nothing else. "I _knew_ you'd get it, Marui-sempai. See, that's the problem--I don't _know_ if Y--she has the same problem! I mean, _sometimes_ I think so, but other times, I dunno. Like there was this time when her foot was like, right on my thigh underneath a kotatsu and it got _pretty_ high up there but then that was it, nothing else, and I don't know if _I_ should make the move first or if that'd be weird. See," he says, leaning in closer, as if this part is the really big secret, "I'm _younger_. How do you deal with _older_ girls?" 

 

“ _Older_ girls,” Marui muses, marveling at the fact that Kirihara doesn’t necessarily get the fact that he gets it, and that it’s really fucking obvious. Oh, well, he’s kind of a baby. He should probably be trying to stop this, or at least warning someone, but...eh, it’s not like Yanagi’s going to hurt him. “Older girls are cool, though. She’s probably, like, _done_ it before.” Yanagi has 100% done it before. Marui’s seen...things. Never _ever_ open Yanagi’s computer or notebook, that’s one thing that he knows for sure. Whether that was a cruel joke or what, he knows not to do that again. 

 

“Plus, if she’s your tutor and stuff, that’s pretty sexy, right?” Marui blows a bubble, thinking. “Just ask if he--uh, she wants to tutor you in other stuff too.”

 

The idea that Ya--his tutor has _done it before_ makes Kirihara nervous. What if he's out of his league? No, that can't be. He's seen sex in manga and stuff before. He even walked in on his sister and her boyfriend once. He's _got this_. 

 

Assuming he wants to at all. Yeah. He doesn't have to. Just--he _could_. Because it's his tutor and stuff and like Marui said, that's sexy.

 

"Do you really think that would work?" It _sounds_ like it would work. It sounds really cool, like the lines Sanada always used to test out on Yukimura.

 

Marui shrugs. “You could at least probably get a good blowjob out of it,” he suggests. “Blowjobs are awesome.” Or so he hears.

 

Kirihara is slightly bug-eyed now. " _Really?_ " He should probably be more concerned about how…uh… _good_ that idea sounds. He's _not_ thinking about Yana--his tutor doing that. He swallows nervously, glancing around as if to make doubly, _triply_ sure no one is around. "That…umm, Marui-sempai--" He's practically whispering now. "If--uh, for some reason, she turned out to be a _guy_ , that wouldn't make me _homo_ , would it?"

 

Marui thinks he does a good job of making his eyes widen. “No _way_ ,” he says, with complete confidence. “Like, that’s only if you’re a foreigner. Japanese guys can do it with each other all the time, _duh_. Didn’t you cover Nobunaga and Takeda in Classics?”

 

Relief nearly makes Kirihara collapse. "Oh, _good_. I mean, just checking and all that, because you never know! Niou-sempai says things get weird like that sometimes, and I know I'm not supposed to listen to him, but I can't _help it_ sometimes."

 

Marui claps his shoulder. “Sometimes, hot older girls are dudes,” he says wisely. “Just go with it. You want ramen? Or do you have tutoring today?”

 

"I always want ramen," Kirihara wistfully says, "but I, um, should go to tutoring today. If I don't, I think I'll get yelled at. We should all do ramen _tomorrow_ , for New Year's. No one else made plans for all of us, did they?" 

 

Marui smacks Kirihara upside his head. “Don’t be dumb, we’re all going to see Buchou in the hospital tomorrow. After that we can go out to the shrine, and _then_ ramen or whatever. I’ll check with Sanada.”

 

"No one told me!" Kirihara whines, rubbing at the side of his head. "When's he going to be out of the hospital already? I _hate_ going there, it smells like old people."

 

“When he’s better.” It can’t come soon enough, but Marui sees how despairing, how downtrodden Yukimura looks a lot of the time lately. He sees the way the muscles in his captain’s arms and shoulders are wasting down to the bone, and the way the light is a little dimmer in his eyes every time.

 

Well, they’ll have to get it back somehow. 

 

“I’m baking a cake for him. You should give him something good for New Year’s. Ask your tutor for help,” Marui advises, and gives him a wave when he goes trotting after Jackal.

 

"But--Marui-sempai!" That doesn't feel like _nearly_ enough advice, but Kirihara sighs, scooping up his racquet all the same. Maybe his tutor _will_ have good advice about this. Yeah. Yanagi-sempai and Yukimura-buchou have been friends for a really long time.

 

And that's not a homo conversation to have at all, either.

 

"Yanagi-sempai! Yanagi-sempai, practice with me!" he demands, darting over. "Can we get ramen afterwards? And maybe you can, um, tutor me on things." They definitely didn't have something scheduled for today, but maybe, if he shows--what's the word…yeah! _initiative_ …that'll be good.

 

Yanagi gives the younger boy a little smile and a bow of his head as he reaches for his racquet. “That would be delightful, Akaya. Do you want to go to the ramen place by my house again?” Thinking quickly--yes, his house will be empty. It’s for the best, given how much Akaya tends to yell when he’s getting tutored, and how much that yelling gives his father a headache.

 

"Yeah! And listen, I have questions to ask you. When you're tutoring me and stuff, not now. Some of it," Kirihara says conspiratorially, " _doesn't_ have to do with tutoring. Not really." 

 

Yanagi raises an eyebrow. “Well, then. We’ll have to make sure we have enough time. Let’s try a 12-point tiebreak, what do you think?”

 

"Okay, but I'm going to win this time!"

 

He doesn't win this time.

 

Spectacularly, he loses, and sulks his way through showering when practice is all said and done. Kirihara wonders how much credit he'll get for not taking a single point. "Yanagi-sempai," he grouses as he towels his hair dry once he's half-dressed, "can you promise to _not_ tell Yukimura-buchou about how I still can't take points from you guys? And also, what should I get him for New Year's? Marui-sempai says it has to be good, but I dunno what's good." 

 

“I have a wall hanging at my house he’ll like,” Yanagi volunteers. “Of a French garden, I think he’d like that just fine.” He’d purchased it for this exact reason, actually. “And of course I won’t tell him. That will just be a pleasant surprise for him when he gets out of the hospital.”

 

"Really? That doesn't sound as good as Marui-sempai's cake, but okay." That's one problem solved, at least. He tugs on his shirt, buttoning it up thoughtfully. "You know, we don't have to do ramen. I know the ramen place gives you hives sometimes. Mostly, I just wanted to hang out with you this afternoon." Yeah, that's really smooth. 

 

Yanagi’s head tilts to the side. “How thoughtful. If you’d prefer, I have soba and some of those sesame cakes you like so much at my house already, if you’d like to go directly there.”

 

Kirihara's eyes light up as they leave. "Can we eat under the kotatsu? Yours is sooo warm, and your sister never comes in to bother us like at my house!"

 

“My sister is at our grandparents’ home this week,” Yanagi says. “My parents are with her. It’s just me until after New Year’s.” The time spent listening to music without headphones has been most relaxing.

 

"Ahhh, lucky! But I'll keep you company, Yanagi-sempai, don't worry. I promise I'll try hard at English, too, but not too hard. It's New Year's eve and all that, so you know. Save the biggest efforts for next year!"

 

“Very good, Akaya. Put your best foot forward on the first day of the New Year. That will help set a good precedent.” He steers Kirihara onto the road, keeping something of a grip on his elbow in case he decides to dart into traffic. There are reasons for the safeguards.

 

"Yeah! Maybe on New Year's, I can get a point off of you and Sanada-fukubuchou." Kirihara casts his gaze upward dreamily. "Then I'll really be able to be number one here at Rikkai. I bet I could take over the club when Yukimura-buchou is away and _everything_."

 

“It is certainly possible that you could take a point,” Yanagi allows generously. “How much homework do you still have for winter break, coincidentally?”

 

"…Some," is the eventual, pathetically sad admittance. "But, listen--I'm going to get it done! I swear. It's just--there's _tennis_ , and I like tennis a lot more than homework, so it's a struggle."

 

“Of course.” Yanagi gives him a little smile, tugging him down the proper street. “Besides, that’s why you have me, isn’t it? I’ll let you know when it’s time to worry. Between us, we’ll have everything done in more than enough time.”

 

Kirihara swerves slightly, letting Yanagi pull him along. "This is why I like you a lot more than everyone else, Yanagi-sempai. No one else helps me like you do, and--well, okay, Marui-sempai gave me some good advice today, but he could have given me _more_." 

 

That probably shouldn’t make Yanagi slightly affronted. He’s definitely spent too much time around Kirihara at this point, and hears himself say, a little bit twitchy, “Any advice you need, you know you can ask me. Am I unknowledgeable? Ah, was it perhaps about a video game?”

 

"Eh? No! It…um." Shit, has he blown his cover? He should have just said it was about a video game. "I just wanted to ask Marui-sempai because I _always_ ask you," he attempts to explain away. "I didn't want to keep bothering you about everything." 

 

“...but you still have questions.” That much is obvious from the nerves. Yanagi takes out his key as they approach his house, and lets Kirihara in first. “Would you like to ask me while I wash your feet?”

 

Oh, no. He'd forgotten about this part. Normally, it's _fine_ , but when he's thinking about things--and he's been thinking about things a lot lately--sometimes, it's kind of…distracting. Kirihara swallows, toeing off his shoes. "Um, I dunno. I can just ask Marui-sempai later, I don't wanna bother you or anything, it might be too weird."

 

“Akaya, I can recite the digestive functions of two hundred thirty-six sea creatures. Nothing you say could be too weird.” He fetches the basin, dipping the cloth into the water (that sits on a warmer for just these sorts of occasions), and kneels in front of the couch, taking one of Kirihara’s feet into his hands and beginning to wash it.

 

"…Why do you know how to do that, though?" Kirihara manages, flopping back a little bit and staring pointedly up at the ceiling, swallowing hard. He's _not_ gonna look at Yanagi on his knees. That's just going to make this all weird, especially after what Marui said. "It's…um. The other day--uh, other few days, really, when you were tutoring me--" Nope, nope, he can't do it, even if Marui _says_ it isn't homo. "It's really stupid, forget about it!"

 

Yanagi washes quietly for a moment, dipping the warm cloth between each pair of long, gangly toes. “Akaya, do you know what state-dependent learning is?”

 

Is this a tutoring question? It probably is. Kirihara starts to sweat nervously. "Um…no?" 

 

Yanagi nods, as if to say, _Yes, I expected this_. “State-dependent learning refers to the phenomenon that accompanies certain properties in the state of learning, that when replicated in optimal conditions, produces a more favorable result. In other words,” he says as Kirihara’s eyes start to glaze, “it’s important to study how you felt when you were learning. If we can make you feel like that when you’re tested, you’ll remember better. Tell me about what happened during tutoring.”

 

O…kay. Right. He's got this.

 

"Sometimes, you say a _lot_ of things, Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara mumbles, sagging back and wiggling his toes a little. "But okay. If you really want to know--I…" He swallows nervously. "I just--sometimes, when you're really close to me--like when you're leaning over me when you're tutoring me and stuff--or that time when we were both under the kotatsu and your foot was kind of there and stuff…I dunno. I tried talking to Marui-sempai about it, but I don't think he really got that I was talking about…about someone that was a _guy_." 

 

Yanagi, about to switch to the other foot, pauses as trailed-off sentences and incomplete clauses align in his mind to make some semblance of sense. Ah. Oh. “Akaya, if you would prefer that I keep my distance from you during our sessions, that’s fine. I would hate for you to feel threatened.”

 

"No!" It's definitely a problem that he blushes so much at that. Shit, he shouldn't have said that so _fast_. "I mean--only if you want to--I…I didn't say it was a _bad thing_ , I don't feel threatened, I just…I didn't…" Kirihara scrunches himself into a ball as much as he can, considering Yanagi has his feet. "I just wanted to make sure it was _normal_ , you know? 'Cause I like girls, I think they're really cute, but Yanagi-sempai isn't a girl though you're still really…"

 

“Ah, I understand.” Yanagi picks up the next foot, washing gently. “I’m glad you said something, Akaya. I was attempting to maintain a modicum of distance for the sake of propriety. If you’d prefer to get closer, either in an ersatz relationship or simply for the sake of learning, I’d be both flattered and amenable.” 

 

Then, to clarify, he lays a hand on Kirihara’s leg. “You can touch me, if you want.”

 

The look of confusion fades from Kirihara's face immediately. "R…really? Okay, but here's the thing, Marui-sempai said it wasn't a homo thing even if you were a guy. Is that for real? Because…because I don't want to do anything that's going to keep either of us from getting a girlfriend later, you know? Even though the last girl that you dated was that gothic lolita one and she was a little…"

 

“Megu-san was quite elegant, and I won’t hear a word against her,” Yanagi says calmly. “But quite honestly, Akaya, you aren’t a homosexual unless you don’t like girls at all. You like girls, don’t you? As long as you do, you’re not homosexual.” The _acts_ are, but facts won’t comfort Kirihara so much as, well, obfuscations.

 

That's another wave of relief to crash over him. "Oh, I like girls a _lot_. You know, sometimes I think if you were a girl, Yanagi-sempai, you'd be a great housewife." Kirihara pauses, and then flushes a deep red. "I said that out loud, didn't I."

 

“No offense taken,” Yanagi assures him. “I take it as quite the compliment, not to mention the fact that I happen to agree with that assessment.” He finishes washing the second foot, then asks, “Was there something in particular you wanted to try with me? It could be practice for girls, or we could simply agree to enjoy each others’ company.”

 

Kirihara wonders if this is what it feels like to be hit by a truck. He flops back, breathing in deep, pretty sure all of his worries have been tossed away for the time being. That's good. He thought for sure he was going to end up weird for the rest of his life. "I…I dunno, really." He pokes at one of Yanagi's knees with his toes. "Marui-sempai said that you'd probably done it already. Because you're older."

 

Yanagi sits back on his heels, a small smile on his face. “Bunta is undoubtedly correct. Whatever you’re thinking of, it’s very likely that I have, indeed, done it. Anything in mind?”

 

Kirihara can't help but lean forward, now less embarrassed, more intensely curious. "Marui-sempai said that older gi…uh, people, probably give more blowjobs. Is that for real?"

 

“I can’t speak for all older gi-people,” Yanagi says, amused and thinking quite seriously about what to do to Marui next week. “And I don’t know how many he’s comparing it to. But if you’re wondering whether I’m willing to give you a blowjob, the answer is yes.” He blinks up at Kirihara through his lashes, and leans forward slightly, long fingers coming to rest on Kirihara’s knees. “If you want me to.”

 

_‘Hell yeah, I want you to!’ is what you will say._

 

 _These_ are the images that have been nothing short of _haunting_ him for the past few weeks, made worse by longer tutoring sessions and…and… _ugh_ , Kirihara doesn't know, but it's still kind of weirdly good. 

 

He swallows hard, nodding before he can really get the words out of his mouth. "I really want you to," he admits. His hands are somewhat shaky, but he's got to be cool about this, so he steadies himself with a deep breath before he reaches out to gently touch Yanagi's hair. "But…but not if you want to do something else, or whatever--it was just one idea." For all he knows, Yanagi might have even better ideas. He usually has a few stashed away.

 

“What if,” Yanagi says delicately, walking his fingers up Kirihara’s thighs, “I told you we didn’t have to do this just once? After all, I’m your tutor. If you want to learn things, I won’t be the one to turn you away.” He’s also sort of (a lot) thinking about how Kirihara will taste, and what noises he’ll make, and how hot and heavy it will feel on his tongue. _Don’t be a predator, Renji,_ he tells himself firmly, and stills his wandering hands.

 

"Oh." That escapes far more breathlessly than before, definitely more eagerly. Marui was right--that whole tutor thing is really…really sexy. Kirihara's fingers curl a little in Yanagi's hair--he can't help it, it's just _so soft_ \--but he doesn't pull or anything, that's weird, even though he shifts at the thought. "That sounds really good. You've always been a really good teacher, so…"

 

“Thank you, Akaya. Part of learning,” Yanagi says, scooting forward slightly, enjoying the way Kirihara plays with his hair, “is in being honest. If you hear about something you want to try from Marui, ask me. I won’t be weirded out, and I promise I’ll say no if I don’t want to try it. I don’t recommend you ask Niou for advice here, however.”

 

"Uh huh." Kirihara's eyes glaze somewhat--he can't help but _really_ like the way Yanagi looks down there--as he keeps petting the other boy's hair. "Don't wanna ask Niou-sempai about things like this. He always says weird things…and I actually think," he adds, sounding somewhat offended, "that Marui-sempai isn't as smart about this kind of thing as he lets on. You're the one that seems to know everything, so I'll just take your advice from now on." 

 

It’s hard not to be gratified. Kirihara taking _anyone’s_ advice is reason for delight, and Yanagi revels in it. “Very well, then. You have to promise to let me know if you start getting nervous, all right?” Just then, it’s hard to resist the urge to climb Kirihara and rock on his lap, but first things first--something nonthreatening and purely pleasurable, and Yanagi licks his lips, eyes tracking down at the thought.

 

The way Yanagi's eyes are on him makes Kirihara shiver and shift, his cock twitching as heat slides quickly south. "Why would I be nervous?" he mumbles, threading his fingers through Yanagi's hair, along his scalp and down the back of his neck. "It's just _you_ , Yanagi-sempai." All questions answered, there's _really_ nothing for him to feel nervous about. If anyone's going to make sure things work out perfectly, it's Yanagi. 

 

Another good response. Kirihara is full of them this afternoon. Yanagi takes that as a cue to reach forward, carefully unbuttoning and unzipping Kirihara’s trousers, slender fingers delving carefully into his briefs to pull him out.

 

Ah, it’s quite a bit like he’d idly imagined, inasmuch as he’s thought about every one of his teammates at one point or another. He leans forward, swiping the tip of his tongue over the head, letting out a pleased little noise at the taste.

 

Marui was right about one thing: Yanagi's _definitely_ done this before.

 

Who else would be so _confident_ about it? Also, that feels really, really good, especially when he's not completely hard yet--though that doesn't last long, not with the noises that Yanagi's making. Kirihara inhales a sharp breath, biting his lower lip as he watches, sort of in rapt fascination at how pretty Yanagi's hand looks around him and how is he not even _blushing_ over something so lewd--

 

Ah, he's lightheaded, though. Kirihara shudders and flops back and kind of clings to Yanagi's hair, hoping that's not getting in the way too much, but he needs _some_ kind of safety handle right now or he's going to die, pretty sure.

 

Kirihara is being _very_ good, Yanagi thinks with pleasure. He deserves a reward. 

 

He leans forward, taking the head into his mouth, slowly fitting his lips around the thick length and starting to rock downward with every thrust, tongue swirling around the head. His hand moves out of the way when his lips touch it, both of them coming to rest on Kirihara’s upper thighs. He can’t quite suppress the hungry little noises he lets out, groans and gasps around the thick cock in his mouth, and his own cock throbs between his thighs.

 

The safety handle doesn't matter, Kirihara knows he's going to die either way now.

 

The _noises_ that Yanagi's making are both the best and the worst, and his cock throbs and drips against Yanagi's slick, _hot_ tongue. He whimpers, his fingers tightening in Yanagi's hair before he can really help himself, and Kirihara gives into the urge to tug as he arches upward, liking far too much the wet noises that follow, the way that he can feel Yanagi swallow around his cock.

 

Which is, go figure, the first way that he feels himself come. 

 

He doesn't really _spill_ like that, though there's a lot more dripping as he twitches and shudders, his cock still hard after the fact all the same. Sometimes that just happens, and it's really good like that, because everything's always way more sensitive after the fact and Kirihara was pretty sure Yanagi's mouth couldn't feel any better but now it _does_. "Sorry," he gasps out, his head rolling back a little. "S-sorry, Yanagi-sempai, you're just--just really good--"

 

Now that is _interesting_. “No refractory period,” he murmurs, after swallowing and swiping his tongue over the slit in the head. “Mm, how impressive.” Kirihara is still hard, and the small spill on his tongue was less than the impressive amount he’d expected--but that explains it, he supposes. 

 

Yanagi sits back on his heels, one hand wrapped gently around Kirihara’s length, slowly milking him with every stroke. “How do you like it?” he asks, all nonjudgmental curiosity and a bit of arousal. “After you’ve come the first time, is it very sensitive? Or does it still ache here?” His other hand comes up to cup the younger boy’s balls, still heavy and hot and full in his hand.

 

Kirihara nearly arches off the couch, shuddering long and hard with every stroke. That's just not fair, especially when the wires cross in his brain and he can't quite reply other than to _whine_. Hopefully, that gets the point across of _I like everything you're doing that's good really good yes yes yes._ "Ahhh…b…bothhh…Yanagi-sempai, I'm going to _die_ \--" His head lolls back, breath exhaling hot and heavy towards the ceiling, and he can feel his cock already dripping over Yanagi's hand, twitching in the delicate grasp of his fingers. " _Please_ don't stop." 

 

“My apologies,” Yanagi says, eyebrows raising as he leans forward again, and murmurs against his cock, “I mistakenly thought you were finished.” How _delightful_.

 

His mouth slides down over Kirihara’s cock again, farther this time, hungrier, until he takes most of the length into his mouth and throat. It’s not the best position from which to do this, but he makes it work. He’s _quite_ bendy, or so he’s been told time and time again. He leaves one hand where it is, stroking and cupping Kirihara’s balls, and brings the other one to slide up his abdomen and his chest.

 

Yep, he's definitely going to die. 

 

There _really_ can't be anything better than how hot and wet Yanagi's mouth is. It makes Kirihara whimper and squirm and cling to Yanagi's hair anew, _trying_ not to tug but that's so, so easier said than done. Every little touch makes his brain feel like it's _sizzling_ , and his skin twitches and shivers under the brush of Yanagi's fingers. 

 

The _best_ thing, though, is looking down and seeing the way Yanagi's lips are wrapped around his cock. 

 

 _Usually_ , if he's come once, he's good to go for awhile afterwards. Apparently, that doesn't apply when someone's mouth is involved, because just there's nothing lewder than the way Yanagi's lips look sticky and slick with saliva and Kirihara's own _mess_ and--

 

This time, he spills hard, gasping, arching up and seeing nothing but white for every long, hard spasm that slides through him. Kirihara is pretty sure that he's never come as hard as this in his life--but calculating that probably requires math and his answer to that right now is _never again, just let me die happy._

 

Now _that_ is more like what Yanagi had expected. He starts to be pleased with his own data, but before he can even begin to comprehend something like that, there’s the small matter of his mouth being full to overflowing. He swallows all he can, thick and musky and salty-sour-bitter all at once, and swallowing just makes it more of a mess when Kirihara jerks up and slams down his throat.

 

Well, maybe he doesn’t have to be _entirely_ elegant, just this once.

 

Yanagi is only too aware that he must look a complete mess when he pulls off, coughing delicately and wiping at his mouth and chin with long fingers. His blood pulses, hot and eager, and the taste of Kirihara still on his tongue is filthy and _good_. 

 

He nuzzles at the inside of one thigh, inhaling deeply at the vigorous _maleness_ , and his eyes are mere slits when he finally leans back. “Did you enjoy your first lesson?” he asks, voice a little more ragged, less precise than usual.

 

Kirihara _thinks_ he nods. Better than that, though, is sloppily, mindlessly grabbing at Yanagi and trying to pull him _up_. It works, mostly, at least when he leans down at the same time. It's enough to get their mouths together, messy and inaccurate but _good_ , and the fact that he can taste himself on Yanagi's tongue makes Kirihara groan and shudder anew. 

 

"Yanagi-sempai…really isn't fair," Kirihara breathes, his own eyes lidded and dark, skin flushed hot and his heart still pounding in his chest. If he really did die right now, that would be okay. Feeling like this makes up for not being Rikkai's number one just yet.

 

Yanagi is in a quite uncomfortable position, half-draped across Kirihara’s lap, half-kneeling, and sets about fixing it. He sits himself firmly across Kirihara’s legs, looping his arms around the younger boy’s neck. Yes, much better, much less awkward. “You don’t seem to be protesting. If you didn’t like it, I can always refrain in the future,” he says mildly, knowing full well what the answer will be.

 

"Noooo," Kirihara groans, grabbing at Yanagi, hauling him closer as he stuffs his face into the side of his neck. "If you never do it again, I'll _definitely_ die then, and that's not good at _all_." He huffs, nuzzling into the crook of Yanagi's shoulder, squirming a little when he feels how hard Yanagi still is. "Do you--um--I guess I could do the same for you, but I'm not going to be anywhere _near_ as good at it--"

 

Yanagi hisses out a breath, hips twitching up no matter how he tells himself he’s better than this, he has more control than this. Apparently, judging from the fact that his cock is harder than he’s ever remembered it being (who knew Kirihara of all people would affect him so strongly? Something to think about), he doesn’t. “If you want,” he murmurs, head tipping back to give Kirihara more access to his neck. “Or just use your hand. Or if you want to watch me do it, that’s fine as well. Then you can learn what I like before trying it yourself.”

 

"The last one." Shows how much he knows--that idea didn't even occur to him, so of _course_ Kirihara would have no idea that the very thought would leave his mouth dry and his fingers gripping Yanagi's hips tighter. "I just…I really like watching you, Yanagi-sempai." 

 

The surge of affection is unexpected, and Yanagi’s face tinges slightly pink with it. How emotional.

 

He doesn’t bother moving; there are few better positions to do this from than right where he is, and that makes it easy. He leaves one arm around Kirihara’s neck, and uses his right hand to undo his own trousers, undoing them gracefully and pulling out the slender length. Slowly, he teases his fingers under the head, encircling it in a taut ring of his thumb and forefinger, slowly squeezing his way down before dragging up again, eliciting a thick drop of liquid from the head. He rubs that around with a fingertip, dipping it briefly into the slit before trailing the slick mess down the underside. “I hope,” he breathes, eyes locked on Kirihara’s, “you’re paying attention, Akaya.”

 

"Y-yeah." It's so much more _precise_ than the way he does this himself, and that makes it _impossible_ to look away. Kirihara sags back into the cushions, lips parted as he watches, his fingers sort of absently kneading where they curl against Yanagi's hips. "What d'you think about when you do it, usually? Lately, I…" He swallows hard. "I kept thinking…about stuff like this. With you." 

 

“That,” Yanagi says, tracing a fingertip over the frenulum, “is a complex question.” He shifts his hips slightly, giving himself more room, and slowly rubs the head onto the palm of his hand in three tight circles, letting it come away slick and dripping before gripping himself, running his hand down the length, fingernails ghosting over his balls before he starts tugging gently on the base, fingers darting up to encircle his foreskin, sliding a fingertip underneath it before it completely retracts. Yes, now he’s fully hard. “Sometimes I think about the way the spectrum of light fits together, or the most exquisite snowfalls. Sometimes I think about the heat of a person’s lips, or the way you’d feel inside me.” He wishes now that he had his other hand free to tease himself, but this will do, for now. “Sometimes I think about being chained to the wall and having someone tickle my feet with a feather, or kissing a sleeping person’s neck.” His head tips back, and he groans softly. “Tonight, I’ll think about the way you taste.”

 

That's a _lot_ of things to think about, but the last part makes sense, and it makes his own cock twitch anew and makes him shudder. Kirihara's hands tighten as they slide lower, bolder now that he knows _he's_ on Yanagi's mind right now (twice, actually, if he remembers everything correctly from the stuff Yanagi said). Yanagi's ass feels _good_ in his hands, and he squeezes as he lurches up, mouthing a wet kiss to the side of his neck. "I know I'm gonna be thinking about you a lot more," he breathlessly admits. "The faces you're making right now--t-the way…the way you looked when your mouth was on me--"

 

“The fact that you’re so appreciative,” Yanagi murmurs, and then breaks off his own train of thought, turning to kiss Kirihara hard, sucking and nibbling on his lips. After a long, breathless moment, he tries to remember what he was going to say. “Ah, it makes me want to give you lessons like this every day.”

 

His mind shorts out a bit, and he _loves_ that. The numbers get quieter, and the blood in his veins gets louder. He finally wraps all of his fingers around his cock, each slow stroke combined with a half-twist just under the head and a squeeze at the base. “Right now,” he moans, eyes fully shutting as he lays his head on Kirihara’s shoulder, “I’m thinking about how nice you’d feel thrusting up between my thighs, Akaya.”

 

 _That_ makes Kirihara whimper, grabbing harder, yanking Yanagi closer. He should be watching, he knows that, but just one glance down at the way Yanagi's hand is working himself makes his own mind glaze over and he _really_ can't think beyond the way the pale column of Yanagi's neck is _right there_ and just asking to have his mouth on it. He buries his face into it, his own breath ragged when he kisses that skin just like he was kissed--harder, with a scrape of his teeth. "Whatever you want, Yanagi-sempai," he rasps. "If you teach me, I'll make it really good for you, I promise--"

 

Yanagi’s breath comes heavy as he strokes, eyes glazing over as he wriggles in Kirihara’s lap, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair as some meager form of support. “Next time,” he says, his thighs starting to tremble. “Mmm, you need to be--nice and hard for that, and--ah, to be honest…” 

 

He’s panting now, close as he can be, and he admits, “If you keep biting my neck, it’ll just--be a moment—”

 

Kirihara _really_ doesn't need any more encouragement to do that. He likes way too much the way that Yanagi's voice breaks and stutters, the way that he shivers in his grasp, and when Kirihara finds another spot to bite and suck on, those shivers turn to outright shudders and jerks. Yanagi's skin is _so_ soft, and Kirihara can't help but love the way it feels to mark it up. "Whatever you want," Kirihara mindlessly, breathlessly repeats, teeth catching at the lobe of Yanagi's ear, his hands probably too-tight but Yanagi's so _wiggly_ and he likes that a _lot_. 

 

Yanagi is fairly adept at knowing his own body, and about this, he’s absolutely correct. The graze of Kirihara’s teeth against his skin is too much, and his voice catches on whatever he’d been about to say next. Mindless, his hips thrust up into his hand, wrist starting to ache as he works himself faster than ever.

 

Well, _that’s_ new.

 

Usually when he spills it’s a thin dribble, long in duration but low on “fireworks.” This time, he loses track of where the first spurt hits, and the second is somewhere on his own shoulder as he groans, sagging sideways onto Kirihara, jerking and twitching and trembling with every move of that perfect mouth against his neck.

 

He starts to say something, but manages just to gasp a little, ragged and whimpering. That’s just as good, probably.

 

"You come a _lot_ , Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara breathes, marveling at the mess on his own shirt, on Yanagi's, too, even as he hauls the older boy closer to him and nuzzles his face down into his shoulder. "And the faces you made…" He's never _seen_ Yanagi look so spent and lost, and it's something that he _really_ wants to see again, especially coupled with those noises that he keeps breathing into Kirihara's ear.

 

Yanagi manages a breathless wheeze, clinging to Kirihara with shaking hands. It’s possible that he hadn’t been _quite_ prepared for how utterly Kirihara had taken him to the next level, or what that had done to his consciousness. “Akaya,” he says, trying to put thoughts into words, “if you don’t want to keep holding me, please set me down somewhere soft.”

 

"Huh? What, no, I'm gonna keep holding you," Kirihara petulantly mutters, clinging tighter for good measure, his arms wrapping tightly around Yanagi's waist. "You're okay, though, right? My brain was pretty weird and fuzzy before, too, maybe yours is doing that now." 

 

“Mm, I’m fine. My orgasms are rarely that intense. I usually only attain that state during a prostate orgasm.” Yanagi slumps down onto Kirihara’s chest, quite glad for the moment that Kirihara has ignored all of his healthy eating advice, providing a quite adequate pillow. “I can show you how to give me one of those as well, if you’re interested.”

 

"I have no idea what you're talking about, but okay," Kirihara happily agrees, squishing Yanagi into his chest. He slowly flops to the side, making better use of the couch. "If I can make you feel like that all the time, that'd be good. Wow, your skin bruises really easily."

 

There’s plenty of time to pick up the job of a sexual education teacher later, Yanagi reasons. “Indeed I do. There’s a reason I prefer to avoid both conflicts and swiftly-moving tennis balls, as you can see.” When Kirihara moves, he falls gracelessly with him, bent at a somewhat remarkable angle. “If you could adjust my legs, I’d be very grateful.”

 

"Oh, right." Kirihara squirms a little to reach over Yanagi and sort of…haul his legs up into the right position. Much better. Now he can properly snuggle his way against Yanagi's chest, which is nothing new, but a lot less stressful now. "You're kinda melty, Yanagi-sempai. Can I borrow a shirt before I go home later?" 

 

“Of course you can borrow a shirt. I think I have some of Genichirou’s over here that you’ll fit into.” His own are, of course, far too narrow. His hand comes up, gently stroking through Kirihara’s hair. “Did you have fun and learn something?”

 

Kirhara burrows a little. Yanagi is long, and usually not that warm, but right now, he's _toasty_ , and that's really nice. "Mmmhm. You're always a good teacher. Not always that fun, but today was."

 

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Yanagi smiles, nuzzling into Kirihara’s hair. “I’ll save those lessons for when you’re finished with your homework. That may give you some incentive when it comes to English.”

 

Kirihara makes a face, but hides it into Yanagi's neck. "Fine," he grumps. "But I think I deserve it before homework sometimes. Once in a while, at least." 

 

Yanagi gives the top of his forehead a quick kiss, surprising himself with the sentimentality of the gesture. “When you’re very charming,” he assures the younger boy. “Or if you take a point from me in tennis.” That should be nicely motivating.

 

"Both," Kirihara mutters resolutely. "I'm gonna do both."

 

Right now, though, he's going to be warm and snuggly. Yeah. And that's _definitely_ not homo. 

 


	14. Back to The Present! Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Yuuta

There’s a reason Yuuta doesn’t come home very often.

 

That reason is sitting across from him, happily eating udon. Even the movements of his brother’s chopsticks are absurdly precise, gripping each noodle in turn, letting not a single drop spill between the bowl and his lips. _How_?

 

The reason is also sitting next to him, reeking of expensive perfume, nudging him every time he’s too quiet for his mother’s question, calling him ridiculous little nicknames, making him feel like he’s five years old again.

 

The reason is also serving him more, admonishing him for not growing taller yet, even though he’s already taller than his big brother, what else can his mother _want_? 

 

It’s also sitting at the head of the table, home for once, sweeping in just long enough to tell Yuuta that his grades could be better and it would be much less embarrassing to have two sons playing tennis if they were _both_ champions. 

 

Basically, Yuuta hates his family, he hates his life, and he can’t wait to get back to St. Rudolph’s dorms. He’s barely listening when his brother says something about some guy on his team. “Isn’t it weird to call him -san when you’re in the same year?” he grumbles, slurping another noodle as his sister elbows him.

 

"Mm, no. Taka-san is Taka-san," Fuji says with a little smile. "He even calls me Fujiko-chan sometimes, and I don't think that's strange at all."

 

"That's so _cute_ , Shuusuke," Yumiko sighs out, leaning her chin into one hand. "I wish one of my boyfriends would be as nice to me…"

 

"Don't worry, Neesan. You'll find someone as good as Taka-san someday." 

 

"When I was your age," Fuji Yoshiko dreamily puts in, "I didn't have _any_ of the boys. You should just be happy to have lots of them, even if none of them are any good!" 

 

“In what way is that cute?” Yuuta demands, pointing his chopsticks at his brother, ignoring how rude it is. “He calls you a girl! Isn’t that really obnoxious?”

 

“He looks like a girl,” Fuji Kensuke points out. “Maybe this Kawamura boy is just a little slow.”

 

Fuji shrugs uncaringly. "Taka-san knows very well that I'm a boy. There's nothing wrong with being pampered like a lady."

 

"It's true!" Yumiko insists. "If you're a woman, you get a lot of presents."

 

"He _does_ send me a lot of presents."

 

"Then he's a really good boyfriend! Ahhh, I'm so _jealous_ , Shuusuke! Aren't you jealous, Yuuta? Being swept off your feet like that, wouldn't that be _nice?_ "

 

"I was swept off my feet once," Yoshiko sighs.

 

“That bastard never tried it again after I got through with him,” Kensuke growls, and abruptly picks a mushroom off of Yoshiko’s plate, popping it in his mouth. 

 

Yuuta looks to his sister, to his parents, to his brother, and then up to the ceiling. “Does _anyone_ find it weird that Neesan is talking about a _boyfriend_?”

 

"No," is the unanimous response, except for Yoshiko, who merely sighs happily in the direction of her husband. One can assume that she doesn't think it's weird either, though.

 

"Shuusuke's so pretty, it's logical that he'd get a good boyfriend," Yumiko says without batting an eye.

 

"And he _is_ my boyfriend," Fuji says with another little shrug. He twirls a single noodle around his chopsticks. "It would be a lie to say that he isn't, after all…"

 

“But—” Yuuta looks around the table again, but to no avail. He settles back to his meal, grumbling and uneasy. It’s literally impossible to tell when his family is serious (never), and when they’re just mocking him for their own amusement. He’s _pretty_ sure this is one of the latter occasions.

 

 _Pretty_ sure.

 

Nevertheless, he waits until after the dinner, then hangs around until long past the time he would normally have left, until his father is talking on the phone in English and his mother has gone vaguely “out” for the night. Then, sucking up his courage and his disgust, he knocks on his brother’s door, finding a blank spot of the wall devoid of colorful childish drawings and report cards and large foam English letters spelling “S - H - U - U - S - U - K - E”

 

The door opens, and Fuji is left blinking in surprise behind it, his head tilting slightly to the side. "Yuuta--you're still here?" It takes about a second for that to process before Fuji is smiling and reaching out, catching Yuuta by the wrist to drag him into his room. "Are you going to stay for the night? You can tell me everything that's been happening at school, we _never_ get to talk anymore. Oh, and maybe in the morning, we can go practice together!"

 

“This was a horrible idea,” Yuuta mumbles, and briefly considers making a break for the door. Then, he sighs, and slumps down on the bed. “I just wanna make sure you’re okay,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “You kept saying that guy was your _boyfriend_.”

 

Fuji blinks again, but releases Yuuta's wrist in favor of plopping right down next to him. "That's because he is." He pauses, thinking. "Admittedly, it took me about five weeks to figure it out. Apparently he asked me out during a  doubles match, and I missed it."

 

“Okay,” Yuuta says, as if he can accept that such a weird situation exists, “but are you like, _dating_ dating? Or do you just _say_ you are? Is it one of those elementary school things where you say you’re secret dating but you just hold hands and walk around the playground or something?”

 

Fuji tilts his head back, thinking. "Well," he slowly says, "this is the first time I've dated. But I _think_ it's _dating_ dating. We go places together, he cooks me sushi, and we give each other presents--oh, and we have sex, so there's that, but I don't think that's exclusive to dating." He glances back to Yuuta, beaming. "The _important_ thing here is that you're actually concerned about me. It's really cute, Yuuta."

 

Yuuta hasn’t been a normal color since his brother had said _sex_ , and now he’s fairly certain he’s turning purple. “Uh.” It comes out a squeak, and he clears his throat and tries again, not looking at his brother’s face. “If he’s hurting you, just tell me, and I’ll do something about it.”

 

"…So cute…" Fuji's gone, eyes glazing a little as he can't _help_ but reach out to gently squish Yuuta's cheeks between his hands. "Yuuta, you're so cute. Taka-san would never hurt me, but you're _so_ cute…"

 

“Get off me! I’m sorry I asked!” Yuuta slaps at his brother’s hands, scowling. “Gross, you’re so _gross_! How the hell do you--I mean, not _every_ time, but--you’ll tell me if he does, right?”

 

"Ahhh, I'm sorry, you're just so cute…" Fuji's hand wavers in the air a moment longer before he drops it limply back to his own knee. "Mm, I'll tell you, but it's not going to happen," he cheerfully says, leaning back slightly. "Taka-san's a really good guy. Why are you so worried about him? Is it the burning thing? He just does that, he's really different when he's not playing tennis." 

 

“It’s a little bit the burning thing,” Yuuta admits. “But--I mean, he’s--I mean, he’s _doing_ it to you, right? I just…”

 

Yeah, he’s going to die of embarrassment, but he’d be a _really_ bad brother if he didn’t try. “He’s doing it the right way, right? And it doesn’t hurt?”

 

Fuji _gets it_ from the moment that Yuuta brings it up. That being said, he effects a look of dumb innocence for a moment longer, just because he enjoys freaking his brother out…just a _little_. "Oooh, that's what you're worried about. Mm, he puts it in me, and it's good." Being blunt _does_ make Yuuta turn some interesting colors, and he does like that. "But you know, I also put it in him, and that's good, too. No complaints either way, so you have nothing to worry about, Yuu-tan." 

 

“I _told_ you not to call me that!” Yuuta huffs out a breath, standing up and scrubbing a hand through his hair until it stands on end. “Whatever, that’s all I wanted to know, you weirdo.” He makes for the door, trying to avoid the low-quality pictures of Tezuka Kunimitsu plastered all over the walls and the back of the door.

 

"It's not like you to ask without another reason," Fuji calls after him, leaning back onto his hands. "As much as I love you, Yuuta, you're _not_ very protective of me and you usually don't want to know about who I'm sleeping with." 

 

“You don’t usually talk about it at dinner,” Yuuta mutters, but doesn’t open the door just yet, standing facing the door, face turning redder than it really should by virtue of the conversation. He _could_ say it now, have it out in the open and know that at least someone wouldn’t _mind_...but…

 

He swallows hard. “How did you tell mom and dad?”

 

Fuji shrugs before he flops slowly backwards, ending up flat on his back. "I just did. You know Mom has this weird view of romance, and sometimes thinks I'm a girl, and Dad never cares, anyway. I brought Taka-san over and we ate dinner here and no one seemed to care." His eyebrows raise, his suspicions mounting. "Why do you want to know?" 

 

Yuuta’s teeth grind together. “Yeah, that’s just like you,” he mutters. “It’s fine for you, because I’m the one everyone expects to get married and have babies and a normal life, right? You can go off and be your weird genius self?”

 

Ah, here we go. It's not an evening with Yuuta without this coming up. Fuji's surprised that it's taken so long. "You don't have to do that. I'd get married, if you didn't want to." He rolls slowly onto his side. "And have babies and everything. I like girls, too, you know."

 

Yuuta turns then, and stares at his older brother as if he’d said he enjoys drinking seawater by the gallon. “Are you fucking crazy?” he demands. “If you _can_ like girls, why don’t you just date girls? It’s so much easier! God, if—”

 

He stops that sentence before it can go too far.

 

And there's the point of this whole conversation, apparently.

 

Fuji props himself up onto an elbow. "I think," he slowly says, "that it's only difficult to like boys if you _make it_ difficult to like boys. You don't have to announce that you're dating girls if you don't want to, so it's also just as okay to keep your dates with boys secret--I mean, assuming you're keeping your dates with boys secret."

 

Yuuta kind of wants to die--but dammit, he had come here with a purpose, and if anyone’s going to understand, it’s definitely his weird brother, right?

 

He wriggles his toes in the carpet, opens his mouth, but can’t quite make the words come out. It would be such a relief to say the words, but the consequences… “I just don’t get it,” he mumbles instead. “If--if there was a guy who was only attracted to guys, that’s...I mean, that’s hard, you know? I bet. But you can do both, so why would you be with a guy when it’s so much harder? Like, you can’t get married or live anywhere but Ni-chome, you know? Everyone would stare at you all the time.”

 

"Everyone stares at me all the time, anyway," Fuji points out, but he sighs, sitting up again to pat at a spot on his bed. "Yuuta, the reason I'm dating Taka-san isn't because he's a boy. It's because I really like him. He's a good person." _Way better than I am._ "It's okay to not like girls, though. You don't have to live in Ni-chome, even if you only like guys." 

 

“I went there.” Yuuta still can’t exactly look at his brother, but he slumps down on the bed nonetheless. “Don’t tell Dad. I just wanted to see…” _How they live._

 

“It was really weird. All the guys in dresses, calling each other _onee_ , it’s...really weird. Gross. You and Taka-san aren’t like that, though, right?” There’s more hope and more desperation in that sentence than concern for his brother can really account for.

 

Fuji gives him a wry glance. "Taka-san has never even _been_ to Ni-chome, and I can't imagine he'd ever want to go. Just because you like other boys doesn't mean that you _ever_ have to go there." He sighs, fighting against the urge to start petting Yuuta's hair. It soothes _him_ , but it usually just pisses Yuuta off. A shame, that. "You don't ever have to tell anyone that you like boys, you know. I'm not going to tell anyone that you do. It's up to you." 

 

“I do.” The word comes out in a whisper, and Yuuta sighs, closing his eyes. He’d expected it to feel weird, but instead he feels _better_ , more relaxed, even if he’s pretty sure he wasn’t fooling anyone but himself before. “Thanks, Aniki. Everywhere...even online, it’s all about that kind of man, you know? Not someone who’s normal, but just...different.”

 

"Mm. I know. It's pretty silly, isn't it?" Fuji lists to the side slightly. "I'll tell you a secret, though. You know my best friend, Eiji?" 

 

“Yeah. The one that doesn’t have a lot of stamina? Captain and Kaneda ran him around the court a lot.”

 

"He's gotten better. The point is--Eiji and his doubles partner, Oishi?" Fuji gives his arm a nudge. " _They're_ together. And you see how normal they are, right? Like, suffocatingly normal." 

 

Some of the stress tension eases out of Yuuta’s face, _finally_. His shoulders sag down, even though he gives his brother a little punch in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t go around telling other people’s secrets.”

 

"But it made you feel better," Fuji hums, swaying to the side with the punch. "That's the part I care about. I don't like it when you're upset, Yuuta. Now, tell me who you have a crush on."

 

“No one! God!”

 

"Yuuuutaaaa," is the sing-song to follow, complete with Fuji pawing at his shoulder. "You _have_ to tell me. I want to make sure that they're worthy of you!" No one is worthy of Yuuta.

 

“This is why I don’t tell you anything! Ugh, stop it, get off me, I don’t have a crush on anyone, he’s already—”

 

Fuck.

 

Immediately, Fuji's gaze sharpens. "Are you already dating someone?" Less pawing now, more slowly kneading. "Who?"

 

Yuuta squirms away, accidentally backing himself into the corner where his brother’s bed touches two walls, curling his legs up in front of himself. “Stop _grabbing_ me,” he grunts, eyes scanning the room for any chance of escape. His brother, unfortunately, is absurdly fast when he wants to be, and his eyes are daggers right now. “He’s--I mean, who says I’m dating anyone?”

 

"Yu-u-ta," Fuji hums, promptly setting himself on his knees in front of his brother, his hands on both walls to box him in and prevent his escape. "You're a _horrible_ liar. It's a family trait, you see. You should just tell me who you're dating, then I'll feel better."

 

“That doesn’t make any sense! You and Neesan are _great_ liars!”

 

"Yes," Fuji patiently says, "but _you're_ not. You got that from Mom."

 

Yuuta attempts to struggle for a moment, but gives the hell up. His brother is a _weirdo_ , and now that he’s let this much slip, he’s never going to be able to keep the rest of it quiet. His brother _does things._ He sighs, then brings up his hands, trying to fend his brother off somewhat. “You know him,” he mutters. “It’s my--it’s St. Rudolph’s manager, the one you played.” 

 

This is _not_ going to be fun.

 

A cold chill goes down Fuji's spine, and ends up settling in his stomach with enough dreadful force that he wonders if he's going to vomit. 

 

He sags back, removing his hands from the wall. " _Mizuki?_ " Just this once, he'll remember the piece of trash's name. Fuji takes a deep breath, and tries to stop seeing red. "No. Yuuta, you can't date him." 

 

“You said it didn’t matter and I could date anyone I wanted!” No, that sounds too little-brother. That’s not nearly strong enough, not to throw his brother off the track. “I mean, I’m already dating him. You can’t tell me I can’t.”

 

"Mizuki is different." Why can Yuuta _never_ see this? Even after that match--Fuji swallows hard, reaching out to grab Yuuta's shoulders. "He's just _using you_ ," he tries, holding Yuuta's gaze. "Yuuta, don't you remember how he wouldn't talk to you after you lost to Echizen? Don't you remember that he taught you a technique that was just going to hurt you, and didn't _care_ that it was hurting you?" 

 

Yuuta looks up into his brother’s eyes, firming his jaw as much as he can. “He knew I’d do anything to beat you,” he says, trying to shrug off his brother’s hands. “Ugh, this is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you, you suck!”

 

"I don't want him to _hurt you again_." The idea that Yuuta is _sleeping_ with Mizuki--and oh, he definitely is, Fuji can tell, why else would Yuuta know _anything_ about how sex with guys works--makes him sick to his stomach. His hands tighten. "Yuuta, _please_. Literally anyone else would be better than him, he's human garbage and I _need_ you to realize that." 

 

Perhaps that came off a little too rudely, but--ugh, _whatever_. Maybe he _needs_ to be more blunt about this for Yuuta to understand.

 

That crosses a line.

 

Yuuta smacks away his brother’s hand, moving rudely past him, not caring if his brother gets knocked to the floor when he moves. “This is why I don’t tell you things. You didn’t even ask anything about him, you just think you _know_ him from one tennis match! You’re not exactly _nice_ when you play tennis yourself, Aniki! I heard that when you played Rikkai, your opponent had to be carried off the court, so just--just drop it!”

 

Yeah, he definitely shouldn’t have said anything.

 

It's a rare day that Fuji wishes he understood how to deal with _people_ , but right now, he really wishes that he knew how to, if only for the sake of getting through to his little brother. 

 

Fuji sucks in a deep breath, righting himself on the bed. "How do you think I know Mizuki so well, Yuuta?" he quietly asks, folding his legs up underneath himself. "He's just like me, so all it took was one tennis match to figure that out. _That's_ how I know he'd be nothing but bad for you, and that's why I wish you'd stay away from him."

 

“That doesn’t even make _sense_!” Yuuta wants to tear his hair out. Yeah, that’s about par for the course at his family’s house. He should have known better than to come home. “You just _said_ the only thing you wanted was for me to be happy, so why can’t you think he’d be the same way?”

 

"Do I _ever_ make you happy, Yuuta? Even when I try really, really hard?"

 

“This is dumb,” Yuuta mutters, and yanks open the door. At least at the dorms, he doesn’t have to deal with people pretending they’re on his side.

 

Fuji exhales a breath and lurches up to his feet, making it to the door only in a few strides before smacking a hand onto it and slamming it shut again. "Mizuki is garbage," he repeats, his eyes blazing up at his brother. "And I know that because _it takes one to know one._ He's only going to use you. He's never going to really care about you. You're such a good person, Yuuta, you _can't_ be with someone like him."

 

“Aniki,” Yuuta says very seriously, glaring down at his brother, “you’re being so, _so_ weird. Mizuki-san isn’t _garbage_ , he’s a middle-schooler like us. You’re the one telling me what I can and can’t do! You’re just--ugh, I don’t even know what you’re doing! And it’s weird that you keep talking like you and him are the same, this is why Mizuki-san says you’re a brocon!” Shuusuke _is_ standing pretty close to him, after all. Yuuta can feel the heat from his body.

 

Fuji's going to kill someone, and that someone wears horrible flower-print shirts. He already has a hefty list of reasons why to kill Mizuki, but _that_ \--"I am not a brocon," he flatly retorts, but he scoots back a little bit just to make his point. "I'm _trying_ to protect you. You know, like you were with me and Taka-san? Except this is _real_ , and--he doesn't hurt you, does he?" Panic suddenly wells up in his chest, and Fuji's close to Yuuta yet again. "If he _hurts you_ , he's _not_ doing it right."

 

“Oh my _god_ , it doesn’t--I know there’s a right and wrong way,” Yuuta hisses, trying to keep his voice down. “Aniki, he’s really careful not to hurt me, okay? This is _embarrassing_ , just kill me or something—”

 

Fuji grabs at his brother's arms, clutching tightly. "If you know there's a wrong way, then he must have done it that way before. If he _ever_ does that again, or doesn't listen to you when you tell him to stop--do you two have a safe word? _You could use one._ "

 

“Okay, first of all, I have no idea what that is,” Yuuta states flatly. “But if it’s a way to get someone to stop what they’re doing, I want one right now, and I want to use it on you! God, he got _better_ at it, no one’s good their first time.”

 

The images cascade through his mind before he can stop them. Yuuta--and _Mizuki_ , too, both virgins, having sex for the first time--

 

Fuji wishes for death. And a cactus. 

 

He strangles a whimper, and drops his hands. "Yuuta, please. You _can't_ date him." 

 

“I already am. So there’s nothing you can do about it.” Yuuta makes a break for it, wrenching open the door and darting out. If there’s one good thing about his brother, it’s that he has relatively nothing in the way of physical strength, entirely dependent on loony tricks and speed.

 

He’s _got_ to get back to the dorms and warn Mizuki.

 

~

 

Fuji doesn't think there are really any Catholics at St. Rudolph. 

 

This is something that he's judged by the fact that in the thirty minutes he's been on the grounds, he's been confessed to by no less than seven girls and one man. Mmm. Repressed and desperate, maybe, but they aren't Catholic. 

 

This is why this school is a bad place for Yuuta, strike one. The repression, not the Catholicism. 

 

Strike two is the fact that Mizuki is here, though he's not easy to find. Fuji decides the best method is, honestly, just to wait by the tennis courts. This attracts some attention as well, but he cares very little for Yuuta's teammates whispering about him and the fact that he plops himself down on a bench outside of the tennis cages with an English-language version of _And Then There Were None._

 

It would be good if there were no Mizuki, too, but this world isn't perfect, so conversations have to happen to make _that_ happen.

 

Mizuki Hajime, at least, has some small amount of time to prepare himself for the long-awaited, most auspicious arrival of one Fuji Shuusuke. He’d heard, of course, that Yuuta’s elder brother was on the courts. One of the sub-regulars had run up to him, breathlessly informing him that _yes, it’s finally happened,_ and he’d waited only to make certain his hair and uniform were properly in place before striding out to meet the elusive genius.

 

“Well, well, well,” he says, gently twirling his forelock with a smile he’s sure looks quite calculating. “The slippery Fuji Shuusuke, who willingly enters my domain.”

 

"Slippery?" Fuji serenely echoes, taking the time to bookmark his spot before he actually looks up from his book. "I'm not the one that bathes in a pot of slime every morning. By the way, what was your name again? I want to make sure I've found the right garbage receptacle."

 

The smile on Mizuki’s face turns ugly in a second. “What are you doing here?” he snaps, tossing his bookbag onto the bench, standing in front of Fuji. “Did you lose your little brother and need help looking for him?”

 

It _is_ nice to see how quickly and easily he can affect Mizuki. Fuji's smile never fades. "No. I know very well where my little brother is as of late, and I don't want him there." 

 

“Then it’s a good thing he always listens to his beloved older brother, isn’t--oh, _wait_ ,” Mizuki says, voice dripping in false concern. “That’s right, he never wants to see you again and throws out all your advice!” Heh. That’ll show him.

 

"Mm. Which is why he came to me freaked out about the concept of being with another boy just a few nights ago, obviously," Fuji archly replies, gracefully climbing to his feet and _really_ liking that he at least has a few centimeters on Mizuki. "I can't imagine _why_ he was so troubled. Perhaps it's the fact that his boyfriend-apparent is the sludge born of demon cesspools."

 

Fuji is taller than he is, _damn_. Oh, well. Mizuki steps back, lessening the obviousness there. “Or perhaps,” he counters with a false smile, “it’s because he so hates spending time with his older brother that he dreads everything about that house. He certainly hasn’t expressed any _displeasure_.” He leans in closer, this time for dramatic effect. “Would you like to tell me the things he _has_ expressed to me, Shuusuke-kun?”

 

Fuji remembers, then, amidst the flash of red that appears before his eyes, that he has razor blades in his wallet. 

 

He refrains, though he's fairly certain he'd be justified about using them on Mizuki. "I want," he slowly begins, very carefully, as if Mizuki is a particularly stupid child, "you to stay away from him. I was hoping that you would _learn_ from the fact I publicly humiliated you once, but if necessary, I'll do it again to keep you away from him." 

 

Mizuki’s eyes flash, and he knows they’re darker than they probably should be. “I was dating him before because it amused me,” he says softly, taking a further short step forward. “Now, I’m going to do _whatever I want_ to him, just because I hate you. Shall we see who comes out on top, then?”

 

He should have brought a damned recorder and kept it in his pocket. _Then_ he would've been able to make Yuuta understand. 

 

_If you hurt him again, the depths of which I will make you suffer will be exponential to the number of tears that I count coming down his face. I'm not very good at counting that sort of thing, so my guess is that the number will be very high and you will wish you were dead._

 

Fuji doesn't say that, though. It's too wordy, not awful enough. "Considering I _always_ am on top," he breezily says instead, "I think the answer to that is already quite clear. We'll see how amusing it is when your paisley prints start making him want to vomit." 

 

“Shows how much you know,” Mizuki says, triumphant. “My paisley prints are extremely tasteful! In fact, I think I’ll have him on one of my paisley chairs tonight. I’d invite you to watch--I _do_ think he’d like that--but I don’t like you, so fuck off.”

 

Fuji punched a guy, once. It was also because of Yuuta, go figure, but it wasn't very effective, and he doubts it would be very effective here, but oh, is he tempted. "He's not stupid, you know. He _will_ figure out that you're trash, and I'm wondering where the fun in that's going to be for you." 

 

“Hmm, I don’t think he will,” Mizuki muses. He taps his chin, resting his elbow on his other hand, and turns slowly, giving Fuji the side-eye. “After all, he still hasn’t realized you’re no better, and he’s had years for that.”

 

"The difference is," Fuji quietly, levelly says, "I'm much better at hiding it than you. Your paisley prints are tacky, you're awful at tennis, and it's only a matter of time before this is all something in the past. Keep that in mind, because I will."

 

“We will see.” Mizuki hopes that’s enigmatic enough, because after a while, dealing with Fuji Shuusuke always starts to give him hives. “If you have nothing further to say, I must be going. Otherwise, I’ll be late for our private tutoring session, and we can’t have that.”

 

Fuji is going to put those razor blades in Mizuki's lunch. 

 

"Have some class, and at least don't do him on the paisley chair," Fuji mutters, grabbing his bag and turning to go. He has to do _something_ about this. Anything, really, or he's not going to be able to play at Nationals because he's so _distracted_. 

 

~

 

His family always acts so _normal_ when Taka-san is over.

 

Fuji wouldn't care either way, to be honest, but he does like it, just a little bit. His mother sort of mellows out around him, spacey, but still manageable, and his sister doesn't flirt so much as she does coo. Even his father seems to find Taka-san acceptable, and his father usually doesn't care about what kind of boy or girl his children bring home.

 

All of this is something that Fuji files away as proof that ' _Taka-san is way too good for you_.' 

 

That being said, he _does_ like having his boyfriend over for dinner. His mother is a good cook when she's sane, and she's usually sane enough when Taka-san is around. "Apparently," Fuji cheerfully tells Taka, methodically going through his summer English homework for him at the kitchen table, because Taka-san usually insists on helping his mother cook, and oh, that's charming, "Yuuta's supposed to be coming home for dinner tonight. It's been awhile since you've had a chance to see him." 

 

It feels like way too long since _he's_ seen him, even if it's just been a couple of days. He's twitchy, and there's a very good reason for that, Fuji thinks. 

 

It takes more than a little strong-arming, but Yuuta does eventually make it through the front door, followed closely by Mizuki. His brother doesn’t look terribly on-edge yet, which means his mother had actually listened to him when he’d begged her not to tell Shuusuke about the guest he was bringing.

 

Or she’d forgotten, which seems equally likely.

 

“Sorry we’re late,” he mutters, toeing off his shoes and pointedly not meeting his brother’s eyes. “Mom, Dad, Sis, this is my manager—”

 

“Mizuki Hajime,” Mizuki cuts in smoothly, with a bow that isn’t quite deep enough to be very polite. “It’s a pleasure, Fuji Family.” His eyes, by contrast, flick directly to Shuusuke (though they do linger just a bit on Yumiko).

 

Fuji's pen digs down into the paper, slowly, methodically stabbing. What did he do to deserve this? Well, the universe doesn't need to answer that, but _still._ _Why_. "Does anyone smell anything? I think you forgot to take the garbage out, Yuuta." 

 

"I don't smell anything, Shuu-chan," his mother dreamily says, drifting away from the stove. "I forgot about your friend, Yuuta. He seems good, though!"

 

Yuuta’s jaw grinds. “Hello, Taka-san,” he says, purposely addressing his brother’s boyfriend instead of his brother. At this rate, he won’t talk to Shuusuke all night, if he keeps acting like this. “I hope your arm is feeling okay.”

 

“Fine, thank you for asking.” Kawamura Takahashi’s face is kind, but worried, gaze never straying from his boyfriend’s face for long.

 

“Forgive the intrusion, but something smells _delightful_ ,” Mizuki says, stepping forward as his eyes light up at the sight of Yoshiko. “Would you like any help in the kitchen?”

 

 _Don't you dare try to take over_ my _boyfriend's status as helper_ Fuji angrily thinks, glaring hard enough at Mizuki's back that he hopes the idea sears into the trashbag's very soul. 

 

"I have _so_ many helpers today…" Yoshiko catches Mizuki deftly by the arm, and drifts with him in tow to the cabinets. "You can help me set the table." 

 

"Make sure to sanitize everything afterwards, Mom." 

 

"Is that a thing that's done now?" Yoshiko idly wonders. 

 

Yumiko flicks the side of her eldest brother's head. "You're so _cranky_ today, Shuusuke." 

 

Fuji twitches.

 

“Aniki, can I show you something for a second?” Yuuta says, breaking his mental promise to avoid the hell out of his brother and snatching the older boy by the collar, dragging him off to his room as Mizuki starts inspecting the silverware.

 

While he _does_ like being dragged off places by Yuuta, now doesn't seem to be the time to enjoy it. "I can show you something, too, Yuuta," Fuji breezily replies, letting himself be tugged along. "It's called, not having Mizuki as your boyfriend." 

 

Yuuta slams the door shut, then grabs his brother by the shoulder, slamming him up against the wall. “You’re _such_ an asshole!” He barely refrains from screaming, and his voice gets dangerously quiet. “ _All_ you’re doing is making me want to hang out with _his_ family instead! At least no one acts like _you_!” And after meeting Mizuki’s family, that’s really saying something.

 

"I went and spoke to him the other day, did he tell you?" His head is spinning a little bit, but that's nothing new. Fuji blinks slowly up at his brother, drawing in a deep, calm breath. "He said that he was only dating you because it was _amusing_ , and because I told him to leave you alone, he was just going to hurt you more."

 

“First of all,” Yuuta growls, “you hate him so much I wouldn’t put it past you to say that just to make me break up with him. And _second_ of all, knowing what you probably said to him, I wouldn’t put it past _him_ to say something like that just to piss you off! There’s a reason I told him he’s not allowed to talk to you tonight!”

 

"I knew I should have brought a recorder," Fuji mumbles, slumping back against the wall with a sigh. "I'm _not_ lying, Yuuta. He's not with you because he likes you, he's just trying to make _me_ angry."

 

There’s an element of real hurt on Yuuta’s face for a moment, and he pulls away, stalking over to the other side of the room before he can start throwing punches. “Right. Because the one person that’s ever asked me out definitely only gives a shit about _you_. Like everyone else does. No one could possibly be interested in the genius’s little brother, right?”

 

"That's not what I _meant_." Fuji pushes himself off of the wall, trailing slowly after Yuuta. "It's just how _Mizuki_ is, Yuuta. He's trash. There are so many boys out there that would _love_ to date you, and they'll actually be nice to you and things." 

 

“No, there are a lot of boys that want to date _you_. You’re confusing it again.” Yuuta snorts, folding his arms. “I shouldn’t even be surprised at this point. I finally get something I want, and you shit all over it. I knew I shouldn’t have told you anything. You say you want me to be happy, but all you ever do is make me hate myself!”

 

 _Is_ he confusing it? No, that can't be right. There are a lot of boys that would date him…but they'd also date Yuuta, too, he's sure of that. Fuji bites his lip, reaching out to touch Yuuta's arm. "I'm not trying to ruin anything. I just don't want you to be with someone that's going to hurt you. Why won't you believe me? Mizuki's _proven_ that he doesn't care about your well-being before."

 

“And you do?” Yuuta demands, actually shoving his brother hard, pushing him away. “I was _happy_. The only thing I was worried about was telling _you_ , because I knew you’d be a judgmental self-centered _bitch_ about it, and I was right!”

 

This is probably karma. That exists in this universe, or so others have told him. The one time that he's genuinely trying _not_ to be a judgmental self-centered bitch, Yuuta just won't listen to him at all. Fuji stumbles back, catching himself before he hits the wall again too hard. "…All right." It feels like he's swallowing around a handful of nails, but he has no idea what else to _do_. "I just want you to be happy, Yuuta. I'll skip dinner so you can enjoy it with him, if you want." 

 

Yuuta exhales deeply, feeling at least some of the clenching knots in his stomach release. “ _Thank_ you, Aniki.” He hesitates, then walks closer to his brother, clapping him on the shoulder in some kind of apology. “You don’t have to skip it, just don’t--I mean, I’m not saying you have to like him or even be nice, just don’t _provoke_ him, okay? I don’t want to have to play peacemaker all the time.”

 

 _I can't_ not _provoke him_. _I'm going to kill him._  

 

That being said, he can't just leave Taka to his family's--and _Mizuki's_ \--devices. "…I'll just pretend I'm a mute," Fuji says, his smile forced as he slides away from the wall. 

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes. “Fine, if you want to be a drama queen asshole about it. Fine.” It’s something, at least, even if he’s pretty sure he’s going to strangle his brother before dinner is through.

 

Yuuta has _no idea_ how much effort this is taking, but that's fine. That's for the best.

 

It takes every bit of effort to stop himself from asking his mother _did you sanitize the plates._ It takes even more effort not to ask Taka if Mizuki contributed to the cooking at all, and if he should avoid anything because of it. Fuji isn't even sure if it's a consolation that Yumiko seems to have cornered Mizuki at the dinner table somewhat, chattering away about her recent acting roles, because Mizuki seems to enjoy it when most house guests would run away screaming.

 

"You know, _producers_ make pretty good boyfriend. That's how I got my most recent role! It's a drama about a poor girl that falls in love with this rich boy but she finds out later on that he's her half-brother and oh, it's just a _mess_." Yumiko sighs dramatically. "But I _do_ love those kinds of plots. They're so romantic, forbidden love and all of that." 

 

“More like really gross,” Yuuta mutters, sliding into a seat.

 

Mizuki just waves a hand at that. Somehow, he’s acquired a silver-polishing cloth, and is wiping down all the fixtures, starting with the candlesticks. “I think that sounds utterly fascinating, Yumiko-san. Certainly it would be a fitting part for a woman of your _caliber_.” The word takes on new meaning in his mouth, and Yuuta glares at him.

 

Taka, sensing the need for a distraction, pops a piece of fish in Fuji’s mouth. “Need more seasoning?”

 

"You're so _cute_ , Mizuki-kun!" Yumiko gushes, just like she always does at the slightest hint of a compliment towards her acting ability. Fuji has seen her work. It's not very good, but it does't matter, because she's pretty and has big boobs in Japan, and that counts for a lot. "Ahh, your sisters must _love_ you, you're such a sweet boy."

 

Fuji wants to die. Even Taka's cooking can't taste good under these circumstances. "It's fine," he mutters all the same, every hair raised up on the back of his neck. 

 

Taka casts a worried look at Fuji, watching his eyes following Mizuki around the room. 

 

“Ah, I don’t see too much of them these days,” Mizuki admits. “I rarely leave the dorm rooms when there’s so much to do with the tennis team. This night is a rare treat for me, and I’m ever so grateful you wanted to have me over.”

 

“It’s just dinner, you’re being weird,” Yuuta mutters, still stormy from his confrontation with his brother.

 

Maybe, Fuji thinks, if he glares at Mizuki enough, he'll develop telekinetic powers and be able to send a chopstick through his eye. 

 

"Yuuta, be nice! He's being _so_ gracious, not like anyone else you've ever brought over!" Yumiko huffs, and reaches out to pet Mizuki's hair whenever he drifts close enough. "Look at this _color_ , it's so _vibrant_."

 

A muscle in Fuji's jaw ticks. "To match the paisley, obviously." Shit, shit. He's supposed to be a mute. God _dammit_ , though, keeping his mouth shut about Mizuki is _impossible_.

 

“Oh no, Shuusuke-kun,” Mizuki says without looking over at him, “I don’t have anything paisley to match my hair...yet. Yuuta, would you like to help me look for some new furnishings for our dorm room once you get to high school?” He beams at Yumiko. “We’re planning on rooming together.”

 

“ _Mizuki-san_ ,” Yuuta hisses, casting a worried look at his brother.

 

"Oh, that's so _cute,"_ Yumiko dreamily sighs.

 

"Does that mean you've picked out your high school already, Yuuta?" Yoshiko idly asks. "And here I thought you were going to drop out and become a hobo. I did that once…" 

 

Fuji _calmly_ scoops up the remainder of Taka's homework that he has to edit and starts making a break out of the kitchen. He can't do this, apparently--not when his pulse is pounding in his ears and he keeps looking for a weapon to make use of. "You know, I'm not feeling too well. There must be some kind of mold in here that's giving me a headache--you know, it might be the remnants of that purple hair dye, Mizuki. I hear sometimes there are _spores_."

 

Before anyone can respond and get truly upset, Taka hands the spoon to Yoshiko and puts an arm around Fuji, steering him out of the kitchen and into his bedroom. “Fuji,” he says, low and urgent, “are you all right? You’re not acting like yourself.”

 

Fuji has never been _terribly_ inclined to bursting into tears (sitting down on tennis courts and crying about Te--…nnis notwithstanding, because that's not bursting, that's slowly trickling), but he nearly does right then, if only from sheer frustration and the fact that Taka-san's arm is around him, warm and strong and _stable_. He'd _like_ to just tell Taka that it's fine, that there's nothing to worry about, go back and eat dinner, but--

 

"I hate him." Fuji leans back onto the door, shutting it behind them as he swallows hard around the lump in his throat. Nails again. "No one else sees it, but Mizuki--he's just--he's _garbage_ , and he's just going to hurt Yuuta and he won't _listen to me_."  

 

“I’m listening.” Because it usually helps, Taka sits on the bed and pulls Fuji into his lap, one hand on his knee, one arm securely around his waist. “I’m...I’m not much good at helping people with their problems,” he confesses, “but if you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen.”

 

The pile of homework hits the floor, and Fuji immediately becomes a ball against Taka's chest. He's warm, and solid, and _listening_. Usually, it's better when people don't listen, but in this case… "You remember how Mizuki was hurting Yuuta before, right? That's why I was worried; I knew that Mizuki didn't really care about him, and was just using him. I _proved it_ when I went to talk to Mizuki a few days ago." 

 

It's shocking how just remembering that conversation turns his stomach, and Fuji burrows, butting his head against Taka's shoulder. He's supposed to have a stronger constitution than this, but if it's Yuuta, apparently that flies out the window. "Mizuki said that he _was_ just dating Yuuta because he thought it was amusing, but now he's going to do _whatever he wants to him_ , just because he hates me." 

 

Taka swallows. “He sounds like an honestly terrible human being,” he says frankly. “I can understand why you wouldn’t want him around your little brother. Is there…” He racks his brain, trying to think up some kind of solution. Dammit, Akutsu is better at this kind of thing. He always sees right to the heart of a problem. “Is there anything Mizuki wants _more_ than Yuuta? I mean, could you bribe him away somehow?”

 

"…Maybe," Fuji miserably replies, "but you're not going to like hearing the way that would work. And Yuuta isn't going to like it, either. And I think it would just make it worse in the end." Because Mizuki _would_ drop Yuuta if _he_ joined St. Rudolph's team, or probably even if he slept with him a few times. He sighs, letting his head loll back so that he can stare up at the ceiling. "I really want to kill him," he admits, forgoing the censor that he usually puts on around Taka, just this once. "I wish Yuuta would see how horrible he is, but right now, he's just obsessed with being with someone that at least pretends that they prefer him to me." 

 

Taka doesn’t even pause at the admission, just rubbing gently against Fuji’s back in comforting circles. If he weren’t so _useless_ he could _do_ something, he could _help_ somehow, or what’s the good of being a boyfriend? “I think that’s pretty natural,” he admits. “I mean, if someone hurt you, or if I thought someone was going to, I’d definitely feel the same way. Plus, I mean, he’s your little brother. It feels like your responsibility to protect him, right?”

 

"Mm, but…I don't think he likes it when I try to protect him." Fuji shrugs, offering Taka a wry smile. "Do you know that he was worried about _me_ , just the other day? He threatened to beat you up if you hurt me. As if that would ever happen." He flops his head back down against the other boy's chest. "Ahh, I'm a really bad big brother, I think. I always try to help him, but it just ends up making things worse." 

 

Taka is _going_ to help, if it’s the last thing he does. “I bet,” he says slowly, “that when he was worried, you said you were fine and he accepted that. And when you were worried, he probably said he was fine too, right? I mean, I know you know better, and he’s definitely _not_ fine, but that’s probably how it looks to him.”

 

"The thing about Yuuta is that…well, he's just really naive." Fuji frowns, idly picking at a button on Taka's shirt. "He doesn't see the same stuff that we do. I just wish I could make him _see_ how awful Mizuki really is--and barring that, I'd just like to make Mizuki leave him alone, somehow. Until that happens, though…it's so distracting, I don't even know how I'm going to play at Nationals while thinking about this mess." He sighs, shrugging again. "Sorry to bother you with this, Taka-san. I'll figure it out, though, so don't keep making that worried face." 

 

“You’re not bothering me. I mean,” Taka amends quickly, not wanting Fuji to think he’s a liar, “I’m _bothered_ , but it’s not like it’s your fault. I’m worried because you’re worried, you know? I’m worried about you, and you’re just…” He frets a little, worrying at his lip. “I want you to be happy. I don’t want you to fake it, though. If you want to hide out in here, I’ll bring you your food, we can have a picnic.”

 

This is further proof that he doesn't deserve Taka, and that he's just as bad as Mizuki for milking this whole thing along. At least he isn't _hurting_ Taka, though, and Fuji likes to think that's what sets him apart…at least, somewhat. 

 

" _You_ make me happy, Taka-san." Fuji butts his face into Taka's neck. "We could have a picnic, you're right. I don't want you exposed to Mizuki if I'm not there." 

 

“I’m really not afraid of him,” Taka says bluntly. “He’s kind of girly and weird, isn’t he? I mean, in a bad way.” He settles Fuji down on the bed, and stands. “I’ll make your excuses. I’ll just say I thought it would be romantic, so no one will be upset. Your family seems to like me plenty, even if...well, even if I’m a man.”

 

There's a very large amount of satisfaction in the fact that Taka thinks Mizuki is gross, too. Yes, he has chosen wisely. "They like you a lot, because you're perfect." Fuji beams up at him. "Thank you, Taka-san. You always know how to make me feel better." 

 

“If I didn’t,” Taka says wryly, “I wouldn’t be a very good boyfriend. I’ll make it better, I promise.”

 

He closes the door behind him, and very carefully doesn’t meet Mizuki’s eyes when he picks up a couple plates and stuffs them full of food. 

 

He’ll be seeing Mizuki again before too long, anyway. A good man does what he has to to protect the ones he loves, and Taka very much wants to be a man like that.

 


	15. Fuji & Taka

It’s a week after the dinner when Yuuta seeks his brother out again.

 

This time, he doesn’t come home, but goes straight to Seigaku after practice. Most of them have left already, but there’s a few left, including his brother. Yuuta ignores the others (Eiji and Oishi) and goes straight for his brother, grabbing him by the collar. His eyes are red, voice hoarse as he snaps, “We need to talk. _Now_.”

 

It's a rare day when Yuuta appears at Seigaku, and, as currently demonstrated, it's _never_ for good reasons nowadays. 

 

"Okay," Fuji manages, dangling a few centimeters off the ground. Hmm. Yuuta _has_ gotten very, very strong since he started going to St. Rudolph. "We can go to the clubhouse, if you want?" 

 

"Fuji, is everything all right?" Oishi worriedly calls over, and Fuji just flaps one hand weakly in response. If something isn't all right, that's nothing new.

 

It doesn’t take long to get to the clubhouse, not with the way Yuuta is moving, and he slams the door shut so hard the rafters shake. Yuuta lets go, shoving his brother onto the bench, and stands a meter away, staring at the wall. “I hope you’re happy. Mizuki broke up with me.”

 

Huh. Well. That's news. Fuji's head tilts completely sideways, and he wonders if he's dreaming. "I didn't know," he honestly says, though he _wishes_ he had. He would have been celebrating already. As it is, he's still suspicious, and Yuuta looks upset, so…celebrations must wait. 

 

Yuuta kicks the lockers, and the way they reverberate is satisfying enough to be worth the pain in his toe. “Yeah?” he challenges, finally looking up at his brother with bloodshot eyes. “You didn’t send your boyfriend to beat the crap out of him? I _like_ him, dammit!”

 

There's an odd, pleased flutter in his chest at that. If this is lining up in his mind the way that he thinks it happened--ahh, no, he shouldn't be so happy. At least, he shouldn't be so happy when Yuuta is _looking_. Thank god he's good at looking perpetually confused instead. "Yuuta, I _swear_ \--I had no idea." Come to think of it, Taka _had_ missed practice today…hmmm. Fuji rocks back onto his feet, stepping closer to his brother. "You _know_ I don't like Mizuki, but I didn't tell Taka-san to go after him or anything." _God, that's hot._

 

“Whatever. You got what you wanted.” Yuuta laughs bitterly, rubbing his nose on his sleeve. Dammit, he’d thought he was done crying, this is so _stupid_ and girly and lame. “Like you always do.” 

 

There’s really not much more to say, and he’s _not_ interested in hearing more pleas of innocence from his brother, so he storms out.

 

Well, Yuuta's not _wrong_. He definitely did get what he wanted, assuming this all is true. 

 

Admittedly, Fuji doesn't like it when Yuuta's upset, but…that will pass. _Mizuki broke up with him_ , which is the important thing here. Already, it feels as if there's a weight that's lifted off of his shoulders, but he waits and checks to make sure Yuuta is a considerable distance away before he all but floats out of the clubhouse, trying not to preen or skip too much.

 

"Um," Oishi attempts.

 

"It's all fine," Fuji cheerfully says, and fishes out his phone from his tennis bag.

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: (** **♥** **ω** **♥** **) ~♪**

**You skipped practice! Are you at home?**

 

**To: Fuji**

**Subject: Re: (** **♥** **ω** **♥** **) ~♪**

**Body: I’m at home. I need to clean up a lot so maybe we should wait until tomorrow. Are you OK?**

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Re: (** **♥** **ω** **♥** **) ~♪**

**I can help you clean up. I just really missed you today.**

 

Fuji hopes, maybe, that said cleaning up involves scratches or something bloody that needs bandaging. He could do that. 

 

Taka hesitates before replying, looking down at his hands. Wait, gloves!

 

Yes, that will do.

 

**To: Fuji**

**Subject: Re: (** **♥** **ω** **♥** **) ~♪**

**I can’t come over, but you can come over here if you want. I miss you too.**

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Re: (** **♥** **ω** **♥** **) ~♪**

**On my way!**

 

"Lunch plans on hold, Eiji," Fuji hums, tucking his phone away. "I have a _mission_." 

 

He's glad that no one asks about it. No one usually does, but it's good that they don't this time. 

 

He's surprised (and sort of gleefully wondering if his fantasies are coming true) to find that Taka _isn't_ behind the counter at the restaurant. Instead, he's apparently upstairs, and Fuji happily takes the offer to trot up them and find him. 

 

"Ta~ka~sannn," he sing-songs, slowly skipping over to his boyfriend's room and giving the door a knock. "I'm here to heeelp~"

 

The room is, unfortunately, spotless. Taka realizes this about three seconds after the outside door closes, and he frantically remembers that he’d said it was messy. To keep Fuji from looking closer, he desperately grabs a drawer of clothes and yanks it free of the dresser (whoops, too much power) and dumps the contents all over the floor. 

 

Unfortunately, it’s still in his hand when Fuji walks in. “Uh...hi.”

 

"Hi." Fuji's head tilts, and he sets his tennis bag down right inside of the door. "Are you reorganizing? Because I'm pretty good at that." He pauses, and his eyes land _immediately_ on Taka's oddly gloved hands. His fantasies _are_ coming true, if he's guessing right. "Taka-san," he hums, laying a hand upon the other boy's chest. "I have a theory that you're trying to hide something from me. Is that why you skipped practice?"

 

Taka’s face burns. He hadn’t expected Fuji to be quite _so_ perceptive, and that makes him feel like an utter tool for trying to lie. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, ducking his head in shame. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have tried to lie, you’re way too smart, I should have known you’d figure it out so easily. I just...I just didn’t want you involved.” 

 

He sighs, and tugs the gloves off his hands, revealing bloody skinned knuckles under the knitted fabric (that was probably an obvious fashion choice in July).

 

Fantasies achieved. 

 

Fuji's breath catches in his throat, and he reaches out, reverently taking one of Taka's hands. So big, so strong, so…so obviously bloody because they beat that disgusting piece of garbage into a _pulp_. "So it's true," he breathes, eyes wide as he looks up at his boyfriend. "You _did_ beat Mizuki up."

 

“I had help,” Taka admits, though he hovers uncertainly, not sure whether Fuji’s impressed or horrified. “I mean...you’re not mad? I didn’t mean to go behind your back, but you were just so _upset_ , and, I mean, even five minutes with that guy makes you want to hurt him, you know? I just thought someone should tell him to stay away from your family. Please don’t be too mad--I mean, I understand if you are…”

 

"No one has _ever_ done something like that for me before." He might be shaking a little. Fuji isn't sure if it's because he's overwhelmed or aroused. Perhaps both. "T…Taka-san…you're _so_ manly!" he finally manages, clinging to Taka's hands a moment longer before just leaping up, his arms thrown tightly around the other boy's neck. "No one could _ever_ be as perfect as you are, ahhh, god, pick me up and dip me alreadyyyy--"

 

There isn’t much _picking up_ that needs to go on, not when Fuji is already in his arms--but lifting Fuji usually makes his mind go as pleasantly fuzzy as picking up a racquet does, so Taka obliges him, letting out a bit of unintelligible exuberance as he picks the smaller boy up, dipping him close to the ground, then tosses him in the air, twirls him, and catches him again. “All right, all right, baBY! My Fujiko-chan--super delicious crazy panda!”

 

This is further proof that Taka is perfect--not that he _needs_ any more proof because he _beat up Mizuki._

 

Fuji flops back into Taka's arms, pleasantly dizzy from being tossed and dipped and whee, that's fun. "Definitely your Fujiko-chan," he sighs happily, clinging to Taka's neck tightly and liking how he dangles a little off the ground. "I'm your prize of war, this is what you get for defeating that disgusting waste receptacle!"

 

“That impudent worm! He was easy to defeat, because his body is soft and squishy and made of weak bones!”

 

"Yeah, yeah, good, tell me more about how weak he was." Fuji _might_ be getting off on it. Yeah, okay, he definitely is, especially when he can wriggle in Taka's arms and start gnawing on his neck a little. 

 

“Weak like pudding!” Taka laughs, loud and booming, and tosses Fuji up against the wall, catching and pinning him there. “Bones like the stems of flowers!” Fuji is good to kiss, and he’s a man that deserves that kind of reward.

 

It's the clinical sadism that makes him cheerfully enjoy the idea of Mizuki being torn to shreds, Fuji knows. But Mizuki _deserved it_ , that's the part that everyone seems to forget, because he's garbage and…ahhh, god, what was he thinking about again?

 

Fuji sighs into Taka's mouth before hungrily arching off the wall to cling to him with all four limbs. Mizuki _really_ must have broken like a twig if Taka even hit him _once_. His boyfriend is nothing but muscle, heavy and bulky and yes, yes, yes, that's so good.

 

Any lingering demons or regrets are banished as soon as Fuji kisses him back like that, and Taka loses all sense of time, all sense of propriety when Fuji is so pliant, so excitingly _into it_. “That’s my sweet fiery vixen!” he crows, and with a yank, tears his own shirt open in a frenzy.

 

"Damn _right_ I'm your vixen," Fuji eagerly breathes, and whoops, his nails might be scratching at those muscles a little _too_ eagerly. Mm, no, never mind. Taka looks good all ragged like this, complete with some blood. He kisses back hard, biting at Taka's lower lip. "If you get on the bed, your vixen'll ride you like the sexy warhorse that you are."

 

Taka can’t help but throw Fuji down on the futon first, then pick him up and kind of flop down on it himself. He’s not sure; everything’s all very intense when they’re like this, but somehow he manages to get onto his back, pulling Fuji on top of him. “Just like this,” he breathes, eyes alight as he rips off Fuji’s shirt, pawing at him through his pants. “Your stallion is waiting, my spicy jockey mushroom!”

 

"I _really_ love it when you call me that," Fuji groans, feeling somewhat like he has whiplash after being tossed around like that, but it's good, he _loves it._ He wriggles down, sighing when he feels how hard Taka is--doesn't take much, admittedly, not when he's in burning mode and all of that, but it's still _really_ good. Lube, right, where did they put it last time…Fuji's eyes land on a side table's drawer (probably there) as he casually pops the top button of his pants and shimmies out of them. "Lube, my valiant steed," he hums, because Taka can reach it easier than him, anyway. "And then, I'm gonna ride you so well that you wish you could beat up that piece of garbage every day." 

 

Taka grabs behind him for the lube, easily within reach of his long arms, and tosses it to Fuji. Fuji’s a lot more _precise_ with that kind of thing, anyway, and knows how much he needs. “I will slay dragons for you, my fairest princess french toast maid! No sack of yogurt can stand next to our love! I’m burning for you, I’m on FIRE!”

 

"You're so perfect, Taka-san," Fuji affectionately sighs. "So, _so_ perfect, my slayer of trashlords." 

 

Perfect enough that he _needs_ that cock in him. Yeah. Taka's pants unbutton and are yanked down easily enough, and Fuji _does_ always like the strain in his own thighs when it comes to straddling Taka's hips. Taka's not just taller than him, he's much, _much_ broader, and that's one of the best things ever, really. 

 

If he wasn't in such a hurry…mnnn, no, even being slow and lazy, Fuji doesn't like the whole fingering himself thing. It works just as well to slather Taka's cock in lube until he's dripping, his fingers eagerly wrapping around it to squeeze and stroke. "You're gonna be all the way inside me, my sexy stallion," Fuji breathes, arching up to let Taka's cock slide up the cleft of his ass, hard and heavy and slick. Yeah, good, enough waiting, enough teasing, especially when he's got a _talent_ for taking dick (or so he's been told) and even that first, initial stretch isn't bad at all, what with how slick Taka's cock is. 

 

Fuji holds his breath, his pulse thrumming in his ears when he wriggles down, a broken, eager whine leaving his throat once he's finally _down_ all the way, his thighs trembling and his hands clawing a little into Taka's chest. He's ruined for other men. Taka fits _perfectly_ inside of him, and Fuji's _very_ to eager to grind down, slow and filthy and _needy_ , loving the way it feels when he's stretched wide and full. 

 

Taka can never think of much when he’s inside Fuji. If anything, all he thinks is compressed into a single, desperate word: “ _More_.”

 

Nothing feels like Fuji around him. Nothing feels like that slick squeeze, that tight heat, and more importantly, like Fuji’s breath in his ear, Fuji’s face suffused with pleasure, Fuji’s hands scrabbling and raking at his chest. 

 

God, Fuji’s _perfect_. 

 

“Tie my hands up,” Taka manages, barely. His hips roll up, and he shouldn’t like so much how Fuji is obviously working to take him in, even if it looks like he loves it. “Or this’ll--ahh--be over too fast, and I want to watch you.” 

 

Surprisingly, there’s some element of clarity when they’re like this. Taka is ready, so _ready_ for everything Fuji’s offering, and unlike when he’s burning, he feels like he could stay this way forever.

 

If Fuji ever _told_ Taka what buttons that mere idea pushed, there's a pretty good chance he'd be dumped on the spot. 

 

The way his own cock throbs at the thought and the way his body shivers and tightens up should be a pretty good indicator, though.

 

His belt's on the floor just a few inches away, he thinks--yep, there it is, and it's good enough to secure around Taka's wrists and keep him from getting right back into burning mode. Burning mode is fun and all, but fuck, he _does_ want a chance to actually _enjoy_ this. "You feel _so_ good, Taka-san," Fuji breathes, lurching up, his mouth eager to steal wet, insistent kisses as he wriggles down. "Feel how--ahh--deep you are in me?" His nails dig into Taka's shoulders when he arches down, mouth falling open at that deep, aching _stretch_ of that thick cock. It's so good that his knees wobble, and while Fuji will never say he's _picky_ , he definitely has _preferences_. They just--mm, _definitely_ include his big, manly boyfriend being tied up while he rides him cross-eyed. 

 

Taka’s eyes roll back into his head at the first long, slow stretch of Fuji around him, now in startling, gorgeous definition. Everything is so intense like this, and all he can do is lay back and _enjoy_ , shivers raking through him with every slick slide, his cock throbbing every time Fuji _wriggles_.

 

“You’re taking me in so deep,” he whispers, lurching up as much as he can for a kiss, letting himself be shoved down again the next instant. An almost shy smile steals across his face, wiped out in the next instant by a surge of pleasure as Fuji _squeezes_. “G-god, you have no idea how much I’ve thought about this.” His voice comes out in a groan, and his head lolls back, exposing his neck. There’s nothing better than Fuji, and he’ll fight anyone who says _anything_ else.

 

There is _no way_ he could ever do better than this. That's the problem down to the core, and Fuji shoves that thought aside for now in favor of lunging in for a hard kiss, then a bite to the strong length of Taka's neck, because he's awful, and _loves_ seeing it marked up.

 

"I bet I _do_ know." Who cares if he gets dumped, he's going to get dumped in _style_ , with Taka's cock buried in him and his own aching with every slick, sticky grind. Taka's the only man he's ever really stayed hard with like this, and it's actually mind-numbing to have something so deep inside of him when he's so fucking turned on. Fuji lets his own head tip back for a moment, sweaty hair sticking to his face. He pants hot and heavy up to the ceiling when he lurches back, taking Taka in until their skin slaps together and he has to gulp for a full breath because he's pretty sure he can feel the other boy's cock in his _throat_. "Next time," he gasps out, letting his knees dig into the futon when he rocks up, whimpering with that long slide, "I'll tie you up from the start--do whatever I want with you--and you'll let me, because you're such a _good_ boy, Taka, being my toy like this--"

 

Taka’s pretty sure that it isn’t exactly manly to be turned on by something like that--but the hell if he cares, not when Fuji feels so good, looks so perfect, and is riding him like something out of any man’s wildest dreams. He groans, hips rolling up to slap against Fuji’s with every thrust, panting as he writhes under Fuji. “G-good,” he manages, and “ _Please_ —”

 

And then he’s lost, arms trembling with the effort of straining against the belt, the muscles in his legs flexing as he rocks up _hard_ , filling Fuji over and over again as he spends himself, spilling deep inside Fuji with every thrust.

 

Through it all, he can’t help but _watch_. Fuji’s something to behold any time, but now, sweat-dampened and shivering, he’s something out of anyone’s wildest dreams. Taka is breathless, more from the sight of Fuji than anything else, as he feels himself jerk a few last times, eyes locked on the loveliest face he’s ever seen.

 

Normally, guys getting off in him _really_ doesn't do anything for him, but _Taka_ _\--_

 

Taka breaks every single rule Fuji has ever had. That's pretty clear from the way he shudders when he feels Taka come, spilling inside of him, hot and messy and that sort of makes Fuji melt. He gasps and claws at the other boy's chest, desperately, frantically grinding down, using Taka's cock before it gets too soft and yeah, _good_ , that's more than enough when he's been ready to come for awhile now. 

 

Fuji leans back when he finally loses himself, bracing a hand on one of Taka's knees, shivering with every pulse of his cock as he drips over Taka's stomach and his own thighs. _Breathing_ is something that he's forgotten how to do, but that's for the best. He likes that light-headed feeling on most days. "Taka-san," he rasps, slowly slumping forward, every muscle sort of…twitching. "You're _so_ good, so perfect, really, _really_ manly and good--" His fingers pick at the belt to loosen it--necessary, before he gets too nuzzle-y and limp afterwards to be of any use. 

 

It takes a while for Taka to remember how to _breathe_. 

 

Eventually, he remembers, and takes in a few slow, deep breaths, finally wriggling stiff hands free of the belt to wrap around Fuji. “Sorry,” he whispers, nuzzling his face into Fuji’s hair. “I forgot the condom, I wasn’t even thinking.”

 

"Nnn, s'fine," Fuji slurs, flopping his arms over Taka's shoulders as he gives up and flops down completely onto his chest. "I forgot, too. It's good, though. I like the way you feel inside me." 

 

Taka smoothes his hands down Fuji’s back, gently stroking, feeling the way their breath syncs with each other as they lay there. “You’re amazing,” he says softly. “Thank you for not thinking it was weird.”

 

Fuji thinks he makes a sound very like a purr. He's not sure, because his mind is all kinds of fuzzy. Taka's hands feel so, so good. " _I'm_ weird. You're not weird. You're _great_." 

 

Taka is pretty sure that beating up a guy then asking to be tied up is probably considered weird, not to mention whatever he’s said when he’s burning. “You’re so sweet for thinking that,” he murmurs, and tilts Fuji’s head up for a long, slow kiss. “I hope I give you enough reasons to keep me around for a little while longer. I can make you some sushi, if you want.” It’s almost painful, how much he always wants Fuji to stay, and how easy it is to imagine him leaving.

 

Oh, god, they're both so pathetic. That thought dimly occurs to Fuji when he's being kissed, but all he really wants to focus on is the fact that he's really trained Taka to be a good kisser, and his chest is so warm and _comfy._ "I _always_ want to keep you around, Taka-san," he murmurs, slowly wriggling up to kiss him again. "And I'll always eat your sushi. You don't have to, though; I'll stay as long as you want me to even without it, and you should be resting after the whole Mizuki thing, besides." 

 

“That honestly didn’t take too much effort,” Taka confesses, “and like I said, I _did_ have help.”

 

Fuji wishes there were pictures of Mizuki's broken body. He would have taken pictures, if he had been there. "Mmnn, I forgot about that. Who did you enlist?"

 

“I...kind of called Akutsu,” Taka admits. “I, well, I wasn’t sure if there’d be security, or honestly, how to do something like that. He knew all about it. Really, it’s him you should be grateful to, he’s the one that knew how to do everything. Uh, it’s okay if you don’t thank him the same way, though,” he adds hurriedly.

 

Fuji has mixed feelings about Akutsu. On one hand, he really dislikes the asshat because he treats Taka like he's trash, and Taka is about as far from trash as anyone could ever be. On the other hand… "Mm, don't worry. I'm not going to thank him like this. I think a cactus as a gift will be a good idea." Fuji leans up to kiss Taka once more before he slowly flops to the side. "I'm glad he helped you. I'm glad _Yuuta's_ going to be safe now. I mean, he's mad at me right now, but…that's nothing new, really, and it's fine so long as he's _safe_." 

 

Taka sighs out a breath, and curls up around Fuji, turning him over to start spooning. “It’s the middle of the afternoon,” he murmurs, nuzzling into Fuji’s hair and neck. “We should probably get up and be productive...mm, but I don’t want to let you go.”

 

"We were productive already," Fuji blissfully reminds him, wriggling back happily into Taka's chest. Ahh, today is a perfect day. Nothing could be better. He reaches for Taka's hand, careful of his skinned knuckles as he cradles it to his chest. Taka has good fingers. It's a shame that they had to get bloodied like that, but Fuji thinks it's a sign of honor. He knows he's not wrong. "I have the _best_ boyfriend," he resolutely mumbles. 

 

**To: Aniki**

**Subject: jsyk**

**He’s pressing charges against your boyfriend. I hope it was worth Nationals.**

 

 _That_ wakes Fuji out of a particularly pleasant catnap.

 

He tries not to groan too loudly at his phone, which is easier said than done. Slowly, carefully, he dislodges himself from Taka, sitting up with a slow stretch. 

 

**To: Yuuta**

**Subject: re: jsyk**

**So you two are still talking enough for him to throw a lot of crap around, I see.**

 

Hopefully, it's a lot of crap. With Mizuki, one never really knows. 

 

**To: Aniki**

**Subject: you’re such an asshole**

**I heard from the Captain, but thanks for reminding me that you cost me the only relationship I’ve ever had.**

 

 _You're thirteen, get over it_ is the sleepily exasperated message that Fuji nearly sends. Delete, delete, delete. Now it's mostly a matter of deciding to try and take the fall for this…or wait to see what really happens.

 

Or, there's another option. He _might_ have stolen the number out of Yuuta's phone, just in case:

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: We need to talk.**

**I was recently informed that your face was smashed in. We should discuss terms and conditions of this.**

 

**To: Fuji (the probably male one)**

**Subject: Re: We need to talk**

**You’re welcome to come see me. I’m not feeling up to travel, and the paperwork for filing a court order is ever so tedious.**

 

For fuck's sake.

 

Even if Mizuki has broken up with his little brother, he still sets Fuji's teeth on edge. He sucks in a slow, calming breath before bothering to text back.

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: Re: We need to talk**

**Your dorm at St. Rudolph's, then? Should I bring you a care package, delicate-wilting-flower-san?**

 

**To: Fuji (the probably male one)**

**Subject: Re: We need to talk**

**Throw in some of your mother’s tableware and we can talk. I’ll expect you within the hour.**

 

There are some people that should just be shot and killed. Mizuki Hajime is one of them.

 

Fuji sighs and shuts his phone before turning around and leaning down to press a kiss to Taka's temple. "Looks like I've got to run home," he whispers. "Sorry I can't spend the whole day, Taka-san." 

 

Taka lets out a sigh of disappointment, reaches his fingers through Fuji’s hair, and lets them fall. “Take care. Call me if you need anything. I’ll miss you.” He always misses Fuji, sometimes even when they’re together.

 

"Mm. We'll catch up later." Fuji grabs Taka's hand before it can fall, and presses a kiss carefully to his fingers. Maybe, at least, he can stop this from turning into a bad day.

 

He shows up at St. Rudolph, tableware in tow. There have been stranger requests, that's for sure. Mizuki's room number is easily discovered courtesy of the posted rosters, and Fuji awaits outside of it, rapping on the door with his knuckles just twice. 

 

The door opens after a moment, revealing an extremely bruised and no-longer-bloody Mizuki Hajime. Two split lips are just the start of it; a black eye, a darkening patch on a cheekbone, bruises on his neck, a sling for one arm, and a jaw that looks painful to move are just the visible marks. He moves gingerly, and his breath is labored when he does, opening the door then limping back to the bed, leaning back on at least a dozen hypoallergenic pillows. “Come to gloat, Shuusuke-kun? I can’t even say I’d blame you. We both know I’d do the same in your position.”

 

Fuji would be a liar to say that he isn't gloating, because oh, dear, did Taka and Akutsu do a _number_ on the piece of a shit. It might be turning him on, actually. Hmm. He drifts into the room, nudging the door shut behind himself before gingerly taking a seat in something that isn't…paisley. "You could be _closer_ to death's door," he observes, eyes lidded. "But the important part is that you aren't dating Yuuta anymore. Thanks for that." 

 

“There is no part of you that is welcome,” Mizuki says, stretching out a leg with a slight whimper. “As much as I would usually enjoy looking at your face while I have the upper hand, I can’t see too well right now, so let’s make this quick. What do you want?”

 

No pain tolerance. That's good to know for the future. "I want you to keep my boyfriend out of this." Fuji leans forward, bracing his elbows onto his knees. "What do I have to do to keep you from filing charges against him?"

 

Mizuki raises an eyebrow just a fraction of a centimeter, then gives up when it hurts his face too much. Damn, his usual arsenal of sneers is beggared by this indignity. “Why so protective, Shuusuke-kun? He knew what he was doing. He wanted me to know exactly who he was, even refused a mask from his infinitely more intelligent friend. I certainly hope he doesn’t mind paying what will certainly be a hefty fee, and definitely being marked as a felon.”

 

"You're not hearing me, Mizuki." Fuji is going to reach over there and break his neck if he doesn't stop calling him _Shuusuke-kun_. "Name your price. This is your one and opportunity to have anything you want from me. _You_ should be gloating now, I think."

 

Mizuki glares up at him, then closes his eyes. This would be a lot more fun if he weren’t in so much pain. The dislocated shoulder was bad enough, but the cracked ribs are no fun at _all_. “Lose.”

 

Fuji's eyebrows arch high. "Lose? Fine." He doesn't care, not if it's for Taka-san. "To whom?" 

 

“To Yuuta. I’ll call Tezuka and set up a practice match; it will do you good before Nationals, obviously.” Mizuki pauses to breathe for a minute, giving his ribs a bit of rest. “Play Singles Three. I’ll make sure you go against him. If you aren’t convincing, the deal is off.”

 

"Fine." That sounds almost too easy, but then again…Yuuta isn't stupid. He'll have to _practice_ to be convincing at losing. Fuji climbs to his feet. "Until then, no pressing charges, and I'll make sure nothing else happens to you, no matter how it looks like you'd be happier to be put out of your misery."

 

“And leave the tableware. Your mother, at least, has excellent taste.” Mizuki relaxes back onto the pillows, exhaling deeply. He isn’t really supposed to have visitors over, but this...yes, this was important.

 

"Do you want a cigarette?" Fuji dryly retorts, dropping the tableware onto a nearby table on his way out. "It takes the edge off." 

 

“Disgusting. I should have known that someone of such filth would…” Mizuki trails off, and flaps his uninjured hand. “Fuck off, I don’t have the energy for banter.”

 

"Neither do I," Fuji breezily retorts, spinning a way that shows off his vast array of hickeys before trotting over to the door. "We'll be in touch, Mizuki."

 

Crisis avoided--at least, for the moment.

 

~

 

Taka doesn't need to know about any of this.

 

Fuji is going to make sure that he never hears a word of it. Now, that proves more troublesome when Tezuka obviously hears from Mizuki, then transfers the call to Oishi. 

 

Fuji wants to punch Oishi in the face, mostly.

 

"I don't know," Oishi stresses the next day at his house. "I just don't think a practice match is worth it, if there's the chance for anyone to get hurt--"

 

"No. We need it. Confidence building after our loss." Fuji smacks a hand down onto the bed. "Here, I'll help you iron out the order. Doubles 2, Momoshiro-Kaidou. Doubles 1, Oishi-Kikumaru--"

 

"I was thinking of letting Eiji try singles once, though--"

 

"Singles 3, myself," Fuji continues as if Oishi hadn't said a word.

 

"But--"

 

"Singles 2, Inui. Singles 1, Echizen. Done! See how easy and fun that would be? It's _just_ St. Rudolph."

 

"I don't know…" Oishi hems, chewing on his lower lip as he stares down at his phone. 

 

Fuji tries not to scowl. He _tries_ not to reach over and smack Eiji's boyfriend across the goddamn face. If Tezuka calls back, he's taking that phone, and assuming vice-captainly duties. If it's for the sake of Taka-san, then he _needs_ to. "Eiji. Tell him a practice match would be a good idea."

 

Eiji worries at his bottom lip, frowning. “I don’t know,” he says, drawing out the word and trying to let it play over in his head. “I mean, I doubt anyone will get hurt--ah, but I do _really_ want to beat that Captain of theirs, Oishi! It was my fault we lost to them, and I want to show them what’s what!” Probably not Fuji’s motivation, but close enough.

 

Fuji nods firmly. "See? Let Eiji show off. He _deserves_ it after working so hard."

 

Oishi exhales a long, stressed noise. "I don't _know_. If someone _does_ get hurt…"

 

"It's St. Rudolph," Fuji repeats, an edge to his voice now. "What could they _possibly_ do." 

 

"Tezuka would know what to do," Oishi mutters underneath his breath, fretting anew, and Fuji directs a smile that's far too bright in the direction of Eiji.

 

"Convince him. _Please_." 

 

That little smile sets Eiji’s teeth on edge. “Go outside for a minute, Fuji,” he says, hopping onto the bed next to Oishi. “Go play with Oishi’s little sister, okay? I know you like to do her hair.”

 

Fuji shoots him a surprisingly dark look before sliding off of the bed and slinking out of the room. 

 

Oishi's gaze follows him warily until the door shuts, and he sighs, sagging down onto the bed. "I'm sorry I'm being so indecisive about this," he immediately says. "But after what happened at the Kantou--I can't help but think that I'm _really_ not the one best equipped to make these decisions." 

 

Eiji ignores that, pointing instead at the door. “He’s being _so_ weird,” he says immediately. “You’re probably indecisive because you know something weird is going on. You’re an _awesome_ captain--you just don’t see that you’re making decisions based on instinct or whatever, Oishi! Trust your gut!” He pokes Oishi’s stomach at the same time he mentions it.

 

"…Fuji _is_ being awfully weird today," Oishi admits, sighing as he bats Eiji's hand away. "Weirder than usual. I'm _not_ an awesome captain, though, so don't tell me that. It's just--I don't feel right about this match happening. I don't know why Fuji's pushing for it so much, and that makes me nervous." 

 

“So say no.” Eiji shrugs, and pokes Oishi’s shoulder, then his forehead for good measure. “Or tell him he has to be honest. I’ll tell him if you want, but I’m not in charge, so he definitely won’t listen. I mean, you wouldn’t let me do something just because I said pretty pretty please, if I didn’t tell you a good reason why you should, right?”

 

"He's not going to tell me anything and you know that." Oishi bites his lip, thinking. "Find out what all of this is about," he settles upon after a brief pause. "If he has some weird thing going on, then it's probably best to avoid it. If it's just something with Yuuta, though…then I guess it'll be okay to let it happen. There've been a lot of things going on with Yuuta lately, as far as I could tell, and Fuji _did_ want to play singles three."

 

“It’s _probably_ about Yuuta,” Eiji admits. “He’s been really weird about it for a while. Every time I mention him, he breaks whatever he’s holding and starts talking about having stuff in his wallet for human trash cans, so that might have something to do with it. I’ll be right back!”

 

He darts out, muscling in briefly to shoo Oishi’s little sister out and promising her a tea party later. “Yo, Oishi wants me to find out what’s up. It’s about Yuu-chan, right?”

 

Fuji lowers the comb, staring up at Eiji with a tilt of his head. "Yes. Sure. I want to play him again so he stops being upset about it." It's not _entirely_ a lie.

 

“Uh huh.” Eiji sits on one of the tiny chairs, rocking a little. “So play him. There’s a billion tennis courts, grab him and go play.”

 

"If it were that simple, I would have done it awhile ago." Fuji's smile is strained. "Eiji. You know he has a weird thing about me and tennis. Can't you just tell Oishi that it's about that, and just let me get it over with during an official practice match?" 

 

“But I have a weird feeling about it,” Eiji says bluntly, “and Oishi does too. You’re being secrety, and that means something bad is gonna happen. You _always_ do this, if you just _told_ us what was up, we could help you!”

 

"The _only_ thing that's going to help right now is if you let me have that match." Fuji exhales the breath he's been holding. "Eiji, please." _When do I_ ever _ask you two for anything?_  

 

Eiji chews on his lip, flopping down onto the ground, kicking his feet in the air. “I dunno...it’s still pretty weird. You’re usually so happy to play with him, and now you’re just mad and stressed, you know?”

 

"…If I tell you what it is, will you promise not to tell Oishi until after he agrees?" Fuji finally settles upon, not wanting to keep having this conversation when he could be planning how to lose horribly. "It's really  not anything bad for the team--it's just something _I_ have to do."

 

“I seriously need to know,” Eiji informs him, rolling onto his stomach to look up at him. “There’s too many people keeping secrets and being upset, and it’s giving me a stomachache.”

 

"Taka-san beat up Mizuki, and to keep him from reporting it to the authorities, he wants me to play Yuuta and lose." Fuji sags back slightly, tiredly. "That's it. I _don't_ want Taka-san to find out about this or for him to get in trouble, and that's why I just need to play Yuuta and lose and appease that piece of garbage." 

 

“I _knew_ it was something about that gross slimy guy!” Eiji scowls. “He’s trashy trouble, you’re right. Is Taka-san okay? He’s not hurt or anything, is he?”

 

"No, Taka-san is perfect as always. But you get it, right?" Fuji presses. "He _can't_ know about all of this. I just want to keep it that way, and keep him from getting in trouble. He really wants to play at Nationals."

 

Eiji nods slowly, frowning as he thinks over the situation. “Yeah, makes sense, I guess. But--but why does this gross guy want you to lose to Yuu-chan? I mean, wouldn’t it make more sense for you to have to pretend to lose to _him_?”

 

Fuji shrugs. "For one, he's _really_ beaten up. Taka-san did a really good job, I was so proud of him. Ah, but, anyway, I don't know why he's so set on this. Maybe he's trying to declare his love for Yuuta anew or something, which is gross and not going to work."

 

Eiji makes a face, gagging a little. “That’s...super nasty. I’ll tell Oishi, it’s a good idea for us to play. We can’t lose Taka-san now, right? He’s an important part of Seigaku’s Nationals team!”

 

At least _someone else_ has sense. This is why Eiji is his best friend. Fuji nods, his shoulders sagging a little from relief. "Thank you, Eiji. Just don't tell him about all the backstory, okay? You know that'll just stress him out and he'll start making those awful whining noises."

 

“Right!” Eiji leaps to his feet from a cold start, then pauses. “Also, don’t keep saying that kind of stuff about Oishi. You’re asking him for an awful lot, and he’s being a really good friend, so stop being mean to him for being upset about losing.” Good Boyfriend Status: Achieved.

 

"…You hate those noises, too," Fuji points out on a sigh, but holds up his hands in surrender all the same as he lists slightly to the side. "Okay, okay. I won't say anything else mean, I promise." 

 

Yeah, he’s an _awesome_ boyfriend. Eiji heads back to Oishi’s room, flopping down gracelessly on the bed. “Yep, it’s about Yuuta. Can we have the match? Hey, why did you say you wanted to put me in Singles?” He grins, and pokes Oishi’s side. “You sick of me already, partner?” The smile isn’t as bright as it could be, and something knots up in his stomach.

 

Oishi blinks--opens his mouth--shuts it--and then shakes his head firmly. " _Never_. I just think someone as good as you should have a chance in singles, too." He rubs the back of his neck, briefly glancing at his phone (asking Tezuka again will just irritate him, so forget that) before he just sighs. "All right, we can have the match. If it's just about Yuuta, that's fine, I guess." 

 

“I’ve never beaten you in singles,” Eiji points out, still suspicious. “If that’s all, why don’t you put us both in singles? Make Ochibi play doubles again, that was funny the first time.”

 

"He's not going to play doubles at Nationals at all, though, you know that," Oishi patiently replies, shaking his head. "And I'm not going to play singles. You're good enough that you could, if we needed you to."

 

Eiji frowns. “You know, I didn’t like doubles either until I tried it with you. If you want me to do singles in just the practice match, why don’t you play doubles with Ochibi? He’s only tried it with Momo, and Momo…” 

 

Well.

 

The idea sort of makes Oishi's hair stand on end, truth be told. He's _seen_ Echizen play doubles, and it's not a pretty sight. In fact, it makes him want to start biting his nails just thinking about it. But--"I guess that's fair," he says, slowly nodding as he thinks it over. "If you'll play singles, I'll put him in doubles with me. It'll be an experiment, nothing permanent." 

 

Eiji laughs, and leans over to lay his head on Oishi’s shoulder. “We’ll call it The Match For Making the Golden Pair Want to Play Doubles With Each Other Again,” he announces. “It’s gonna be awful!”

 

"I always want to play doubles with you," Oishi mutters defensively, and snakes an arm around Eiji's waist to give him a slow, but firm hug. "I'm just…trying to do what's best for the team right now, you know? I want back-ups and new ideas, after what happened at the Kantou." 

 

“What happened at the Kantou was that we took second place in the region,” Eiji points out. “How many times has Seigaku gone to Nationals, hmm? And we did it under Awesome Captain Oishi.”

 

"I'm not awesome. We lost." Tezuka wasn't upset or anything, but it still feels like he should have been. Ugh. 

 

“But we’re going to Nationals! That’s great!” Eiji leans harder into Oishi, as if he can sort of _give_ him some of the confidence that Eiji has in him. “We’re going to destroy St. Rudolph, and then go into the first round at Nationals riding high. And you’ll want to play doubles with me _so_ bad after playing with Ochibi.”

 

"Well…all of that is true…" Oishi hedges, and he finally just sighs, giving in and cracking a smile. "It'll be fine, right? Tezuka will be back, too, and that means we'll be even more ready."

 

“We’ll be totally unstoppable,” Eiji assures him. “We’re Seigaku’s best team ever, with Tezuka or without. Man, Oishi, if everyone wasn’t so hung up on Tezuka being so great, we probably would’ve won the Kantou. Everyone was just thinking how hard it was going to be, you know? Even me, and you know me and Tezuka don’t...get along.”

 

"I know you don't." Oishi slowly flops backwards, pulling Eiji down with him and onto his chest. "Tezuka _is_ really good, though. You know that, Eiji. We do stand a higher chance of winning having him on the team." 

 

Fortunately, with Eiji in his arms like this, he still feels like they could win…even without Tezuka. 

 

(Hopefully, that doesn't make him a bad captain or something.)


	16. Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Mizuki

Fuji doesn't know how to lose convincingly. 

 

Admittedly, he can fake losing, for a time, to someone that underestimates him. Yuuta isn't that someone. Yuuta knows him too well at times, at least in tennis. 

 

Fuji is still agonizing over this in the clubhouse when Echizen arrives, albeit begrudgingly. The kid really hasn't shown up to practice more than three times in the past couple of weeks, and that's troubling to Oishi without a doubt. Fuji doesn't care. It would be nice to be able to count on Echizen, but counting on people is something that he does when Taka-san is involved, not with anyone else. 

 

"Fuji-sempai," Echizen grumpily begins, rummaging through his locker, "did they give you a weird slot for this practice match, too?"

 

Fuji lifts his head, shrugging. "Not really. I asked for mine, and I've played singles three plenty of times before."

 

"They put me in doubles, with Oishi-fukubuchou." 

 

It's hard not to laugh. Echizen just scowls at him. 

 

"Sorry," Fuji attempts, though he isn't sorry at all. "Consider it a good experience." 

 

"It's because they don't trust me in singles anymore, isn't it."

 

Fuji's eyebrows raise. A show of insecurity from Echizen is both hilarious and annoying. He likes it. "Doubtful. I think it's because Oishi wants to play with someone that doesn't know him as well so he can get away with having an injured wrist for a bit longer."

 

Echizen's mouth opens, then closes, and he turns back into his locker with a frown. "You're kind of a jerk, Fuji-sempai."

 

"Uh huh. Listen, do you know a good way to fake losing? I'm trying to come up with one." 

 

Asking Echizen is probably the worst idea ever, but what's there left to lose? Surprisingly, Echizen snorts, giving him a sour look. "Fuji-sempai, you know how you always play to that point that you realize you're gonna lose, and then you actually start fighting back because you're a weirdo that likes being boxed into corners?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Don't do that last part."

 

 _Oh_. 

 

It's a lot easier to do that than Fuji imagines. The hard part, of course, is actually getting Yuuta to look him in the eye when they play, so Fuji stops trying after awhile. It makes it easier to just stay in his head and think about _don't try, don't fight back, just let him slowly overtake the score._

 

4-4, and Fuji slowly starts realizing that he doesn't have to put on the brakes because…hmm. 

 

Yuuta _has_ gotten better.

 

Much better, actually. There's the urge to actually surge forward and play hard and eagerly _try_ because of it, but Fuji doesn't, and that's when the next match goes by in a flash. Momentum. Yuuta has it on him in spades now, and it makes his heart thud hard in his chest. 

 

5-4, Fuji Yuuta.

 

"Is Fuji going to _lose?_ " 

 

First years need to shut up. Of course he's going to lose. That's fine. 

 

(That doesn't mean he likes _hearing it_.)

 

40-30, Yuuta's match point, Yuuta's serve, and Fuji can't help but get irritated. There's a compulsion deep-set in his brain that he's sure Mizuki must know about, because he _can't_ just let someone beat him like this. 

 

When Yuuta figures out how to return Tsubame Gaeshi, though--mmn, well, he deserves the win, Fuji thinks, and that kind of makes his knees weak in a bad way for once. 

 

"6-4, St. Rudolph wins!"

 

 _At least shake my hand, Yuuta_ , Fuji desperately thinks, offering him a smile at the net. "You've gotten much better," he quietly says, firmly convincing himself that he's blinking away sweat and not weird tears. 

 

God, he hates losing. He hates it even more when he realizes that he barely had to fake it.

 

Yuuta can hardly stand. He makes it to the net, drawing his arm across his forehead and coming away soaked with sweat. He tries it, sucks up his nerve, and somehow manages to look his brother in the eye.

 

Then, he grabs his hand, whether out of consolation or because he needs it to stand, gripping it as firmly as he can. His eyes are searching, and his voice is hoarse when he manages to speak. “Was that...real?”

 

It doesn’t feel like it. The genius _can’t_ lose. He never has. Yes, Yuuta’s been practicing as if he’s going to be going up against the devil himself, but that’s nothing new. He _always_ does that, and his brother _still_ always wins.

 

The smile turns strained. There's an impulse to immediately tell Yuuta no, it wasn't, that he really didn't try, that if he actually put real effort into it, they'd have a _real_ match, and the result would be different. 

 

Admittedly, Fuji is sure that he could still beat his little brother, but…it would be much, much harder now, harder than it ever was before. That's scary. 

 

"Mm. It was real." Fuji sags back onto his heels, gripping Yuuta's hand tightly. "Feel that, Yuuta?" he quietly asks. "I'm shaking. You did really, really well." 

 

Yuuta’s eyes burn, and he squeezes them shut to keep from crying like a stupid little kid. There’s pride, and defiance, and a hollow, aching feeling of loss. 

 

His brother isn’t supposed to lose. His brother is supposed to be _perfect_.

 

“Play me again,” he hears himself demanding, even though he can barely stand. He lowers his eyes, unable to look at his brother now. “Play harder, I know you can beat me.”

 

Fuji's face falls. Was he not convincing enough? Shit, no, he had to have been. "Yuuta--we can play again later, but--"

 

Ah, no. He was convincing. Definitely. This is just further proof that no matter what, he just can't make Yuuta happy, even (mostly) legitimately losing. "You know the way I play tennis better than anyone--it's natural that you'd finally beat me, you know? You caught me going the wrong way so many times, and figured out how to beat my counters--you worked _hard_ for this." _And I never work hard._ "I'm proud of you. Come on, let's go sit down."

 

Yuuta sags a little, clutching his brother’s hand for support more than as a handgrip for a moment, then nods. “Yeah.”

 

It takes a long inhale before he feels like himself again, and staggers over to the bench, slumping down onto it. “Didn’t expect you to actually lose,” he mutters. “I kept thinking you were gonna pull some other trick out, and I’d be totally screwed. Why didn’t you?”

 

"Because I don't have any more tricks," Fuji wryly points out, dropping a towel on top of his head as he flops down next to his brother, not letting go of his hand just yet. The other regulars are looking at him like he's an alien, and that's fine. Ah, this really is the worst time for him to lose. Now everyone's going to think he's going to lose at Nationals, and that's less good, but…maybe they'll work harder to pick up the assumed slack. Maybe he needs to work harder, too. "My counters don't work like that. They're developed to work against certain techniques, and once they're broken…it's all still just tennis. Your basics are stronger than mine now. That's the key." He's not _lying_ about that, either. Shit.

 

Yuuta grabs a bottle of water, swigging at least half of it before putting it down, gasping for breath. “You don’t seem as upset as I thought you’d be.” He rolls the bottle between his hands, shoulders bowed, and dammit, he still can’t exactly catch his breath. He steals a look over at his brother’s team, and at least all of _them_ look shocked and upset. “Man. I’ve thought about this day so many times, but it doesn’t….I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would.”

 

"I'm really mad." Again, not a lie, explicitly. Fuji lifts his head, sparing Yuuta a brief, sideways glance. "I hate losing." Also not a lie. "But…mm. What's the point in acting upset when I was beaten by someone better? I don't have any right." His eyes lid as he slowly rocks back up to his feet. The more thinks about it, the more anxious he is, and Fuji _hates that_. "You shouldn't get comfortable, Yuuta. The next time we play, I won't let you take a point." 

 

“Yeah. Okay.” Yuuta’s eyes drift over to the rest of his team, none of whom seem terribly excited about him returning. “We could...watch the match from over here, if you want. I’m surprised to see they put Echizen in doubles.”

 

Normally, Fuji would be incredibly excited about the fact that Yuuta actually wants to sit with him, actually wants to _talk to him_ , but--"Sorry, Yuuta. I need to go drown myself for a minute." 

 

Shooting himself in the foot as always, that's him, Fuji Shuusuke, and he trots off before Yuuta can say anything else, even though he kind of just wants to flop against his brother's shoulder and curl up there all sweaty and try not to think about tennis at all for awhile. Instead, shoving his head underneath the cold water of the fountain is as good of a balm as he's going to get. 

 

Shit, he's fucked up. Or, more accurately: shit, he _fucked_ up. 

 

A swift poke to the shoulder is all the warning Fuji has that Eiji is here, before Eiji flops over Fuji’s back. His voice is a lot lower than usual as he says, “Oi...you didn’t have to fake it that well, you know. I mean, you could have made it a tiebreak. Now everyone’s all nervous.”

 

"I didn't really have to fake it." Fuji slowly pulls his head out from underneath the water, letting it drip onto his face and down his back--and subsequently, onto Eiji--when he leans back. "Yuuta's gotten much better. I started trying, at the last game. I just…started too late." 

 

“What, really?” Eiji’s own laugh is a bit nervous, and he gives Fuji a squeeze. “That’s good, right? You should probably be proud of him and stuff. Hmm, but I hate losing too, so I get that.”

 

"I am really proud of him." Fuji wobbles a little, mostly supported by the fact that Eiji is squeezing him now. "I'm really lazy, aren't I, Eiji?" 

 

“Uh, yeah.” Eiji grins. “Otherwise, we’d be like Kaidou, or Inui, and all we’d think about is running around and stuff.”

 

"That's not what I mean. Even you trained hard and fixed your stamina issues." Fuji turns on the water again, and dislodges himself to shove his head underneath it once more. "I guess I should start trying to do something like that, too, but…I don't know what to even work on." 

 

“You need to work on playing serve and volley players,” Eiji says immediately. He leans back against the wall, hands pillowing his head. “Like we always mean to, when we go to the movies instead.”

 

"Probably," Fuji agrees, coming up again from his second drowning expedition and heaving a long sigh. "I wish Tezuka were here. He'd be able to help." He looks sadly back at Eiji through his soaking wet bangs. "Do you think I've let my guard down?" 

 

“Uh...I bet Tezuka would say that,” Eiji says pragmatically, hedging his bets. “Hey, come watch the rest of the matches with me, it’ll be fun. I’ll play that Captain in singles. Hey, is Yuu-chan gonna be Captain next year? That would be cool, right?”

 

"Mmn, it would." Fuji drifts away from the fountain. He doesn't want to think about Yuuta being at St. Rudolph even if he is captain. St. Rudolph is a plague. "I hope everyone else wins. Then we won't all seem like total failures like I am."

 

Eiji’s eyes dart around to the rest of their team before he leans in and whispers, “But you _meant_ to lose, Fuji. That means you really won, right? You got what you wanted, and Taka-san’s not going to prison?”

 

That _is_ the one shining glory of it all. Fuji relaxes slightly, remembering that there was a point to all of this rather than his utter failure. "That's right. You're right." His shoulders sag. "Thanks, Eiji. I kind of forgot about that." _I really hate losing._

 

“Stop being dumb,” Eiji advises. “Go sit on Taka-san’s lap if you’re not going to hang out with your brother. Watch me play the Captain, I’m gonna get him back for that stupid blurry ball!”

 

Both seem like good options, but mostly, Fuji wants to go home. He doesn't say that, though. Sulking is unbecoming. "I'll watch. Don't let him take a game, I know you're that good."

 

Eiji sketches him a quick salute. “Hoi hoi!” 

 

He trots off to start warming up, though his attention is more than divided when it comes to watching the doubles matches. No one, it seems, can take their eyes off the Oishi-Echizen pair that seems destined for disaster, including Yuuta, still sitting awkwardly between the St. Rudolph and Seigaku portions of the stadium.

 

Sulking is unbecoming, but it's a lot easier when Yuuta seems like he's sulking a little, too. Or at least, hiding.

 

Fuji slowly drifts back over, dropping himself back down next to his brother, a barrier between him and the St. Rudolph team. "Why aren't you sitting with them?" Time to ask, he supposes. Yuuta won't just tell him, he never does.

 

This time, Yuuta doesn’t look up at his brother, keeping his eyes on the players shaking hands. “They don’t really...talk to me anymore.” He’d thought it would be hard, to keep his voice from sounding bitter. Instead, it mainly sounds sad to his own ears. “I mean...we couldn’t tell them what really happened, so it just seemed like...it came out of nowhere. He didn’t tell anyone, but….” He exhales a breath, scrubbing a forearm across his own eyes. “I guess everyone knew it was because of me, since we stopped talking after that.”

 

 _Wait, your team actually liked Mizuki?_ is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but thankfully, his filter seems to be forming again as he comes more back to himself. "…But he'll be fine. And I heard he wasn't even filing charges anymore, so he can't be that upset about the whole thing. They can't be upset with you, you didn't do anything." 

 

“I don’t know.” Yuuta swallows hard, and it makes his sore throat ache. “They’re not being mean to me or anything, it’s just really awkward, and no one wants to talk to me.” He grimaces. “God, that sounds petulant, but it’s true. I mean, it’s just that he’s always with them, and…” He really can’t even say Mizuki’s name, not when that still hurts, too.

 

"Yuuta…" Here it comes. The point when he says something stupid to make it even worse, the point where he gloats and makes it clear that he's so, so happy that he's gotten his way because thank _god_ Mizuki isn't dating Yuuta anymore and--

 

Damn it.

 

Fuji wants to vomit. He's wanted to vomit for awhile now, though, and it's a shame that it just won't happen already. "…Do you want me to talk to him?" It's _vile_ , the very thought of it, and it makes him slowly knead his fingernails into the palm of one hand until it starts to hurt. "To Mizuki. So I can apologize." 

 

There is only one thing that could be worse than that, and it's the idea of continuing to look at Yuuta when he's so _upset_. This can't keep happening. _He'll get over it, though_ is something that repeatedly echoes in his head, but how is Yuuta supposed to get over it when all of his friends and teammates at St. Rudolph aren't _letting him?_  

 

Yuuta scowls at him. “You’d just make it worse. I _know_ how you get around him, Aniki.” He looks down at his hands, clenching and unclenching. “Maybe I’ll just transfer schools next year. I mean, I came here to get better at tennis, and...well, if I’m good enough to have a game like that, maybe I learned what I need to.” He swallows again. Dammit, the frog in his throat _has_ to go away soon.

 

Fuji pulls out his phone before he starts drawing blood with his own nails. "I don't think you should have to transfer," he murmurs, flipping it open. "They'll forget about this if you let them. Again, it wasn't your fault." 

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: I'm coming over later**

**We need to have another chat. Yuuta's gotten good, by the way.**

 

“I wish.” Yuuta focuses on the game, pointedly ignoring the rest of his teammates. “Captain just announced next year’s captain.”

 

**To: Fuji (the probably male one)**

**Subject: Oh ARE you now?**

**I kept my mouth shut, keep your razors to yourself.**

 

Fuji briefly glances up. "And? You don't have to be captain to be the team's most valuable player." 

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: I can pick locks**

**I'm not using them on YOU. I need to talk to you about Yuuta.**

 

“The only other second-year is Kaneda, and he outright said he didn’t want it. Captain said he had to take it or it would go to a first year.”

 

**To: Fuji (the probably male one)**

**Subject: Not if they’re filled with superglue**

**Fine. I can spare ten minutes. Come at 4:17 or don’t come at all.**

 

Fuji sighs, flipping his phone shut. He wants to die. Maybe he will, later. "Yuuta. You have to give them time to calm down. Trust me, they will, and it'll be fine." 

 

“Yeah. That’s what I thought.” Still, Yuuta doesn’t sound terribly happy about it, and changes the subject. “Who’s going to win, you think? I heard Echizen was awful at doubles.”

 

"He is. But Oishi's the best doubles partner someone can have." Fuji leans back onto one hand. "They'll win, if only because he can ignore how selfish Echizen is on the court and play around that." 

 

“I dunno. Kisarazu-sempai and Yanagisawa-sempai have pretty good coordination. We used to go out for shabu-shabu, and they’d never even bump the tongs.” The words are a little wistful, and Yuuta clenches a fist to keep himself from thinking too much about it (or about how he’s eaten his last 15 meals in his dorm room).

 

Sometimes, Fuji remembers that Yuuta is actually fairly normal for one of his family members, and that he actually requires human socialization and contact. If only he was normal like that…mm. No, that sounds like _so_ much work. Mostly, he wants to take Echizen home after this and shove him facedown onto the bed. "We could go out for shabu-shabu tonight, if you want. I've got some stuff to take care of first, but, you know."

 

“Yeah, okay.” Yuuta pauses for a moment, then shakes his head. “Wait, you’re going to be celebrating with your team tonight, right? We can go out another time.” It’s not like he has any plans. What with being knocked out of Nationals and not exactly having a welcoming group of friends, there’s been a whole lot of Internet time going on in the evenings, almost enough to make him consider coming home. He’d been close, a few nights this week, but the thought of seeing his brother had turned his stomach.

 

Fuji blinks over at him. "Celebrate? Oh. No, I don't care about that. If they want to go out, they can. They don't need me for that. I'd rather go out with you, anyway. Let me treat you, I promise I won't make you eat anything spicy. We can even skip over to Kanagawa if you want, and go to that favorite bakery of yours." 

 

Yuuta’s stomach growls at the thought, and he nods before thinking. “Yeah, okay!” He can already almost smell the big ovens. He can’t wait to take…

 

He swallows. “Just find me whenever you’re done with your stuff,” he says, flat and toneless. “I’ll be in my room.” It’s still a good bakery.

 

 _Why_ he always has to fix things that he doesn't think are broken is beyond him.

 

Fuji picks at his cuticles for a solid half hour instead of thinking about how he's going to try and talk to Mizuki in a _positive_ way. He barely notices that Echizen and Oishi's match is over, and that they've won, somehow, even though it went into a tiebreak. Good for them, he supposes. That's how it should be. Echizen has all the ability in the world to improve, and always works hard to do so.

 

_How, though?_

 

He doesn't pay much attention to the other matches that happen afterwards, except for Eiji's. He wins, but still drops a game, and Fuji thinks if he were in a better place mentally, he'd tease him. The whole team is definitely planning to go out to eat, but he excuses himself at the same moment that Echizen does, lies about why already readily on his tongue. 

 

They try to convince him to come, to cheer him up, but it's all sorts of moot.

 

Mm, well. He's got about 45 minutes to meet up with Mizuki. Not enough time to hookup with Echizen, but later. Fuji casts him a meaningful glance before drifting out of the clubhouse and heading off.

 

He doesn't look forward to paisley, though. He never does. Finding himself outside of Mizuki's door, Fuji can barely bring himself to knock, especially when he considers, again, what he's about to do.

 

The door opens, and Mizuki looks for all the world as if he hasn’t left since the last time--save for a couple telltale signs available to the sharp-eyed, including boots still slightly damp with mud (the exact same shade as that around the tennis court), a face slightly flushed from exertion under what’s left of the bruises, and appliances that haven’t yet been turned on. “You’re early,” Mizuki says, a touch of grumpiness in the tone, and he shuts the door behind Fuji. “Not that this should take long. What, do you want it in writing or something?”

 

"I told you, this is about Yuuta." Paisley. _Everywhere_. Fuji represses a shudder. It's making his skin crawl more than usual, but most things are at the moment. "Tell me why you wanted me to lose to him." 

 

Mizuki rolls his eyes, collapsing dramatically back onto his pillows--which he knows are in _quite_ good taste, and rather exciting to boot. “What does it matter? I assume you threw the game, then? Unfortunately, I’m still not nearly well enough to venture out.”

 

"6-4. He was very convinced." Fuji steps closer, arms folding over his chest. "Tell me why you wanted me to lose. If you broke up with him, you shouldn't give a flying fuck about his issues with me." 

 

“I don’t see why I should tell you anything at all,” Mizuki says, voice bored as he casts a glance out the window--not that there’s much to see, facing into the courtyard and unhelpfully away from the tennis courts as it does. “Maybe I just wanted to see the genius taken down a peg. Obviously.”

 

"If you wanted to see that, you would have done that yourself--or tried to," Fuji flatly points out. "I'm going to ask you one more time, because you're a really shitty liar. _Why?_ " 

 

“Ugh, you’re a _pain_ ,” Mizuki laments, glaring up at Fuji from his pillow nest. “If I say it was so Yuuta would feel better about himself, are you going to have that hulking beast of yours rearrange my features again?”

 

"I wish." If he vomits this time, he hopes it's on Mizuki. "Apparently, the whole team has decided to shun him now because you've broken up with him. Now," Fuji slowly begins, resting a hand down _calmly_ next to Mizuki, all the better to loom over him, "I have no idea why your team gives a shit about you. I have no idea why they'd turn their backs on _Yuuta_ in favor of you. The point is, you need to fix that and make him happy to be here again." 

 

Despite his best efforts, Mizuki leans away, putting himself at even more of a disadvantage. “Where the hell do you get off?” he demands, trying to fight the urge to just sort of _claw_ at Fuji like a cornered cat. “You had me beaten up because I was dating him. I broke up with him. I even said I wouldn’t press charges--entirely _valid_ charges, I might add--if you did such a stupid little thing as throw a match, and now you’re trying to make me--what? Make everyone _like_ him again?” His laughter is a little hysterical. “Aren’t you a little over-concerned with your brother’s romantic life?”

 

"Probably," Fuji breezily answers, "but I don't care. The fact is, he's _apparently_ happier being a part of this horrible school and apart of your horrible team than he ever has been when he's around me or part of something that I'm involved in. So bring him back to that point. I really don't care what you do to make it happen." The words try to stick in his throat, but no, he's going to say it. He didn't come this far not to, and it's for Yuuta, besides. "You can date him again, for all I care, if that's what will make him happy." 

 

“As if I’d be stupid enough to touch that with a ten-foot pole,” Mizuki scoffs. If Fuji keeps leaning over him, he’s going to kick. He’s going to kick, and unfortunately, he’s not wearing shoes, which means it probably won’t have _too_ much of an effect, but he’s fairly certain he’s going to kick nonetheless. “You’re the brocon, _you_ date him.”

 

Fuji's eyebrows raise. "That's disgusting. Look, I'm giving you my word, isn't that nice? I won't let my boyfriend break your face if you decide that you want to date Yuuta again--so long as he stays happy, of course."

 

“If I wanted to play Russian Roulette with no fixed time limit,” Mizuki says dryly, feet still poised to kick (if he has to), “it wouldn’t be in a game conditional on your happiness with me. There are _so_ many strapping young lads I could spend my time with that aren’t attached to a loaded maniac with a complex.”

 

Fuji straightens up with a sigh, shrugging tiredly. "Uh huh. One, how many do you give a shit about, and two, how many are going to let someone like you top?" 

 

 _A fellow sufferer_ , Mizuki knows immediately, and lets out a frustrated noise halfway between a sigh and a groan. “Is _that_ why you sicc’d that monster on me? Because you found out he likes it facedown? What else did he tell you?”

 

Fuji's head ticks slightly to the side in open irritation. "He actually didn't tell me that he preferred it that way, but thanks for those details that I really didn't want to hear." God, Yuuta really might be adopted after all. "I just assumed that it had happened, because of our conversations. All the more reason to think my offering of peace is gracious, don't you think? My little brother is _far_ too good for you." 

 

“You aren’t offering peace! I haven’t done anything to you, and you’re threatening me with--I don’t even know what, but certainly physical violence if I don’t do exactly as you like, for as long as you like. No matter _how_ much I like him, I’m not stupid enough to say yes to something like that.” No matter how nice Yuuta looks in paisley--or spread out on top of it. Ah, not the memories to dwell on right now.

 

"You're failing to understand that I don't _care_ if you do anything to _me_ ," Fuji patiently says, even though he's very much at the end of his patience. "It's all what you did to _Yuuta_. Somehow, startlingly, you not dating him does more harm than it does good, or so I've seen thus far. I've told myself that I should give him time to let him get over it, but being an overdramatic piece of shit is a family trait, and my tolerance levels are very, very low. I don't care if you date him again. Do it, or don't, but do _not_ make him feel like he's an outcast on this team because you want to be a pissy little bitch. If he talks to me about transferring again, I'll know that I need to come back here and harass you one more time, and you aren't going to like that." 

 

“What can I do,” Mizuki asks, with what he thinks is refined grace for someone being repeatedly harassed and intimidated, “to make sure I never have to see your face again? Because I pick that option.”

 

Fuji gives him a bright smile. "Two things. One, I'm going to give him tickets to the Nationals. Go with him. Two, invite him to his favorite bakery in Kanagawa tomorrow, because I'm going to be a horrible big brother tonight and cancel all my plans with him in favor of fucking a twelve year old just to make you look _good_." 

 

“And then you’re _going away?_ ” Mizuki presses. This, he feels, is the most important part of the plan--the part where Fuji goes away for good. Admittedly, he’s a little bit curious about the twelve-year-old involved, but not enough to ask about it. “For _good?_ ”

 

"Mm. Assuming Yuuta doesn't come complaining to me in the near future." 

 

“Great. You want me to date the bloody Sword of Damocles.”

 

"What a lovely reference. I'm so glad to know that the man my brother is dating has at least half of a brain." 

 

Mizuki lets out a sigh. Possibly a whimper. It’s difficult to say. “Fine,” he says, because agreeing sounds better than being bullied into it--and he’s rather certain that Fuji Shuusuke has more unpleasant tricks up his sleeve. “Now get out of my room. Don’t you have a pre-teen to fornicate with?”

 

"I sure do. And he, like _most_ of my ventures," Fuji snidely tosses over his shoulder as he turns to go, "lets me top."

 

Presumably. 

 

"That's a lot of pictures of Tezuka-buchou," Echizen comments when Fuji finally smuggles the brat home with him.

 

Honestly, Fuji _does_ mean to talk to him about tennis and ask him how he always plays with everything that he has, but there's something about that question that makes him end up fucking Echizen up against that wall with all of those pictures there as a backdrop. Whoops.

 

The second time, they make it to the bed. That's a little less effort, which is good, and Fuji lights a cigarette afterwards, much to Echizen's chagrin.

 

"Gross, Fuji-sempai."

 

"Don't act like Taka-san right now," Fuji mumbles, dangling an arm off the side of the bed. "I need this." 

 

Echizen gives him an irritated look before he slowly slides out of the bed and grabs for his pants. " _I_ need a shower."

 

"Down the hall, second door on the left." 

 

He can still do _dinner_ with Yuuta, Fuji thinks as Echizen slinks out of the room, bowlegged. Yeah. Assuming _he_ can summon the effort to get out of bed in the near future. Maybe. Maybe he can just cook Yuuta something not-too-spicy instead.

 

Yuuta is of two minds about coming home, but, well, his brother had _promised_. Shuusuke rarely goes back on a promise, but he doesn’t exactly have a steel trap for a mind, either. An hour after their appointed date has come and gone, he shows up at his own house, using a key and finding the deadbolt engaged. Right, someone’s home, and neither his parents nor his sister have the car parked there--so it _must_ be Shuusuke.

 

That assertion is further backed up when he sees Echizen Ryouma, surly and heavy-lidded as ever, limping bowleggedly out of his brother’s room, fumbling his way to the bathroom. “Uh. Hey.”

 

Echizen gives Yuuta one, bored look over his shoulder. "Cheers." The bathroom door shuts and locks behind him promptly.

 

"Oh, Yuuta, you're home!" Cigarette out, pants on, that's good enough when he's rolling out of bed quickly. Fuji trots over to the door and out into the hallway, beaming. "We can still do dinner if you want! I got a little distracted, Echizen wanted to meet up about tennis and things."

 

Yuuta’s nose wrinkles. “You smell like an ashtray, Aniki, gross. And, uh…” His face colors. Maybe that smell is left over from Echizen, or maybe it’s his brother, or more likely, it’s both of them.

 

"Sorry, sorry. It's a bad habit, I know." Fuji's eyebrows raise. So sue him, he's had a long day--week. A long _week_. If he has the opportunity to tease Yuuta, just a little bit… "You're turning some interesting colors, Yuu-tan." 

 

“Don’t call me that,” Yuuta mutters, looking to make sure that the bathroom door is closed, and--yep, the shower is running. As soon as he hears that, he accuses, “You skipped out on me to hook up with Echizen?”

 

"He was very convincing," Fuji sighs, sagging into the doorframe. "It's okay, though. I was already behind because of my errands--I got you tickets to the National Tournament and everything."

 

That brings a slight perking up, though Yuuta still isn’t entirely able to shake the idea of his brother and Echizen--and the way Echizen had been walking--and the marks on his neck, and the—

 

He swallows hard. It’s just been too long, and he’d been used to having that pressure released. Now that he doesn’t have a boyfriend, he over-reacts to things like that. It makes sense. “Yeah, sure. Just make sure you don’t lose early, I want to get good use out of it. I only need one, though.”

 

"Nope, I got you two." Fuji grabs him by the arm, dragging him into his bedroom and idly kicking Echizen's shirt over a condom wrapper before Yuuta can notice. He plops his brother down onto his bed as he drifts away to rummage through his tennis bag for the tickets in question. "Even if Seigaku loses, you should watch the whole tournament," he says, dropping himself back onto the bed next to Yuuta and handing the tickets over. "You'll be able to learn a lot just from watching all the other teams, you know?" 

 

Yuuta glares at his brother, and--ugh, the bed is still _warm_ , and he just knows they were…

 

He clears his throat. “You’d better not be planning to set me up with Echizen. I don’t want to go out with anyone you’ve been screwing, Aniki.”

 

Fuji blinks. "Eh? Oh, well, I _wasn't_ , but I do think you two would make a cute couple, now that you mention it." 

 

“ _This_ is why Mi--why everyone thinks you’re a brocon,” Yuuta mutters.

 

He chooses to ignore that slip-up. "Why? I just want you to be happy. Speaking of which," Fuji gracefully segues--or at least, _he_ thinks it's graceful, "I wanted to talk about what would really make you happy right now. You know that I _really_ didn't…appreciate, Mizuki." That's a word for it. "But if you wanted to be back with him…and that's because he made you happy, I'd accept that." 

 

Yuuta’s jaw clenches, and he tries very hard not to throw a punch. “He broke up with me. I’m doing a really good job of not just _hating_ you for that, so don’t bring it up.”

 

 _No one_ is hearing him today. "Yuuta. I'm telling you to get back together with him." It's a shame that no one is hearing him today, because having to repeat things like this makes him sick. "Invite him to the Nationals. You know that he broke up with you because I got involved, not because he _wanted_ to." 

 

“Wow,” Yuuta says, hearing the sarcasm in his own voice and not bothering to hide it, “what a great idea. I’ll just go up to the guy that my brother had beaten to a pulp and tell him that it’s okay if we start dating again. Oh, except he hates me and won’t even talk to me.”

 

"I apologized to him today." That's a lie, but Yuuta doesn't need to know that. He _did_ talk to Mizuki, and that's what counts. "That's why I was late." 

 

Yuuta closes his mouth with an audible snap. “You...oh.” He swallows, but he can’t help the naked hunger, the edge of pain in his voice when he asks, “Did he say it was okay? Did he ask about me? Do you think he wants to get back together?”

 

Ahhh, this is really going to make him sick. 

 

The fact that Yuuta sounds so _ready_ for Mizuki to take him back makes Fuji's stomach turn. Ugh. But this is what he's decided to go with, and he has to stick with it now. "I told him what bakery you like in Kanagawa. Don't be surprised if he invites you to go with him some time." Fuji sighs, leaning back onto his hands. "So invite him to Nationals and see what happens. I bet he'll go with you, you know he'd love a chance to collect everyone's data." 

 

“True. He used to talk about it all the time, like it was a giant amusement park or something….” Yuuta can’t help looking down at his phone, checking almost frenetically for any missed messages. “Nothing yet...are you sure he’ll say yes? I mean, he’s been kind of a hikikomori ever since, I don’t think he wants anyone to see him like this…”

 

"Yuuta," Fuji says gently, and terribly full of fake patience, "he'll say yes. Give him a little bit, though, because you _know_ he's--" _An idiotic pissy bitch._ "--high strung."

 

Yuuta exhales, sitting back on his heels. He’s nearly vibrating now, and it seems as if the dark circles under his eyes have vanished with the relief tinged with excitement. “I don’t--what should I do, I mean, I’ve only—” He cuts himself off, giving his brother a wary look. “I probably shouldn’t ask you.”

 

"You can ask, I don't mind." Why not add to his torture for the day? 

 

"Fuji-sempai, where'd you throw my bag?" 

 

Fuji doesn't bat an eye when Echizen wanders his way back into his bedroom, mussed and damp and still barely clothed. "Oh, here, Echizen." He slides off of the bed, scooping up the kid's shirt, hat, and tennis bag. 

 

"Thanks," is the half-yawned response before Echizen slowly, methodically pads his way from the room once more, signaling an end to that love affair. 

 

Fuji flops back down onto the bed, smiling. "You were saying?" 

 

Yuuta scowls at him. “Last time I tried talking to you about this kind of thing…” He lets that hang in the air. His brother knows what happened.

 

"I _promise_ I'll be good. Come on, Yuuta, please?" 

 

Yuuta huffs out a breath, and still gives him a glare. “How do you...I mean, I know you’ve been with like, a _lot_ of guys, right?”

 

"Mm. A lot." Fuji's head tilts. "What about it?" 

 

“Dunno how you can be so _casual_ about it,” Yuuta says under his breath, “but whatever. The point is, how do you…” He bites his lip. “How do you re-date someone? Like, go back to the beginning, or start where you left off? Do I have to, you know, wait for it again?”

 

Ooh, boy. That's out of his realm of expertise. Fuji hesitates, thinking, and tries to pretend this isn't about Mizuki at _all_. "I think…probably, you don't have to wait? I mean, probably, you should wait to see how _he's_ acting. But see, this is why make-up sex is a thing!" He knows that much. "Maybe that'll just happen right off the bat and it won't be awkward at all." 

 

“Really? That would be good. I just...I mean, if you’re right, and he does want to get back together...I don’t want it to be awkward.” When things are awkward, Mizuki gets angry. And weird. Weirder. “Am I supposed to do something to make it different?”

 

"You probably should never talk about me," Fuji says, thinking happily back to how terrified Mizuki had looked at different intervals. "Yeah. That would be for the best." 

 

“To be perfectly honest,” Yuuta says, looking his brother dead in the eyes, “it’s not like I usually talk about you during sex.”

 

"I was just talking about in general, but okay," Fuji cheerfully says. "That's good to know, too." 

 

“What do you mean, that’s good to know?” Yuuta demands. “You’re the one that’s a brocon!”

 

"Only in the sense that I want to always make sure you're happy and safe! Don't worry, Yuuta, I'd never be a weird pervert or anything like that with you." 

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes, but he relaxes onto the bed a little more. “God. I haven’t come in here to ask you about this stuff...I mean, before Mizuki. In a really long time, you know?” It’s not as if their parents had been all that eager to have “the talk.”

 

"I know. But you can always ask me whatever you want," Fuji says, leaning sideways to flop against Yuuta's shoulder a bit. "I'm not going to lie, I _do_ know a lot about sex." 

 

“The way you say that,” Yuuta mumbles, though he doesn’t exactly make a move to push his brother away. “You make it sound like you’ve done half of Tokyo or something, Aniki.”

 

"Oh, no, not that much. I don't remember all the people I've slept with, though, so I guess there's a lot." 

 

“Huh? How can you….what do you mean, you don’t remember? The last time I checked, you remember every tennis game you ever played.” Yuuta shifts, trying to help his common sense win out over his curiosity, and failing miserably. “How many were, uh, guys?”

 

"Sex is different, though." Fuji plops his chin atop Yuuta's shoulder, thinking. "Most. Three quarters? I like guys more because it's more of a challenge. Yuuta, you're so cute, when did your shoulders get this broad?" 

 

“Huh? I dunno. I mean, I guess we don’t spend a lot of time together anymore.” It’s his own fault. He knows it is, but it’s probably not going to change any time soon. 

 

Mizuki says his shoulders are broad, too, says it when he’s gripping them and spinning him over, pressing him down to the bed with hot kisses on the back of his neck—

 

Yuuta clears his throat, and shifts slightly. Yeah, nothing to see here. “I didn’t even realize you were hooking up with anyone before Taka-san. I guess I don’t really notice things all that well.”

 

 _You never notice anything_. And this is why Yuuta _needs_ to be protected. He's just a baby, really. Fuji sighs a little, pressing his cheek against Yuuta's shoulder. "I usually don't bring them _home,_ so you might not have noticed. I mean, unless they're Neesan's boyfriends. Sometimes, they like me and that happens."

 

Yuuta’s eyes widen. “Seriously? Aniki, that’s horrible! What if she finds out? Would—you wouldn’t do that to me, would you?” No, he reasons, he’s safe. “I mean, you hate Mizuki-san.”

 

Fuji raises his eyebrows. "She knows, and doesn't care. It's not like I encourage it or anything. Don't worry, though, Mizuki's safe."

 

“Oh, good. Because…” Ugh, this is the moment of truth. Yuuta takes in a deep breath, and admits, “Mizuki-san has...a thing for you. I mean, a weird thing. I thought maybe you should know.” God, his brother is going to _hate_ him.

 

"Ah. Well, that's…" Oh, god, he can't fake this. He can't fake this. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out awhile ago. It's all right, I just ignore it." 

 

Yuuta lets out the breath he’d been holding. “Oh, good. I mean, he’s...I mean, it’s like….I know we’re not dating anymore--I mean, I want to, and I hope you’re right and he still does--but he’s basically the only guy I’ve ever met that you either haven’t done or who isn’t in love with you.”

 

"Yuuta," Fuji patiently says, resting a hand upon his arm. "No one really loves me. But I have had sex with most of the guys you know, yes." 

 

“God,” Yuuta mutters, and he _knows_ it’s true. “Who _haven’t_ you? I mean, besides Tezuka. And me.”

 

"You just have to rub in the Tezuka thing, don't you…" Fuji sighs, and slowly, he flops backwards, landing in a heap on his back. "Seiki, for one. I don't get in the middle of Inui and Kaidou's weird drama, and Momo is boring…"

 

“That’s like, three. Three guys I know. And Tezuka. Four. And Mizuki-san.”

 

Oh, god, Yuuta can't even count. Let's ignore that. "Well, I haven't slept with anyone on your team. Does that make you feel better?"

 

Yuuta frowns, thinking. “Kind of? I mean, you might have fun. Captain Akazawa's pretty hot.”

 

"Eh. He and his doubles partner have a thing, seems rude to intrude." Fuji shrugs. "Weren't you going to ask me for sex advice instead of the names of everyone I've slept with? Because I can tell you right now, I literally don't know all of them so this is kind of pointless." 

 

Yuuta’s face flushes. Even if his brother is _letting_ him, it’s still kind of weird. “Yeah, okay. I just...you do both, right? Top and, uh, bottom?” Yeah, his face is going to catch fire at this rate.

 

"Yep, both. I'd _prefer_ the former," Fuji wistfully says, "but when you look like a girl, that's easier said than done. I think that's a Japanese thing…"

 

Yuuta has _no_ idea what his brother is talking about, but instinct tells him that might just be for the best. “Yeah, anyway. The thing is, what if, like...like, if you’re on the, on the b-bottom, let’s say, just for argument’s sake...what do you _do?_ I mean, you’re just just supposed to _lie_ there, right?”

 

Oh, dear. Fuji just stares back at him sadly. "Ah. No. You know, Yuuta, you don't just have to be on your back when someone's topping you. Just the other day, I had Taka-san tied up and rode him like a pony, for example!" 

 

A strangled noise forces its way out of Yuuta’s throat, and he nods dumbly. “O-okay,” he stammers, “I’ll try to, uh, keep that in mind. Um, but what if you’re not usually on your...what if that’s not how you _usually_ do it?”

 

"Okay, Yuuta," Fuji says, as patient as always as he pushes himself up onto his elbows, "you're going to have to tell me how you usually like it. I really don't care if it's face down or against a wall or bent into something from the Kama Sutra, but I can't give you real advice unless you tell me what you're into. It's not like I'm going to repeat it, you know. I don't want _anyone_ to have that kind of advantage over you." 

 

“I don’t see how anyone could use this…” Yuuta trails off as his face attempts to spontaneously combust from embarrassment. He’s pretty sure that can happen. He read it in a manga once. “Uh...f-facedown.” He trails off on the word, ending so quietly it’s hardly audible. Whatever, his brother has weirdly good hearing.

 

Damn it, Fuji was _hoping_ that Mizuki was lying about that. "Mmkay." How can his little brother's favorite be his own _least_ favorite sex position ever? There was an adoption _somewhere._ "Then…ahh, that's a tough one, you know. I mean, you can be really squirmy and stuff--ummm, do _you_ like being tied up? That's something new to bring in!"

 

Yuuta’s breath catches slightly at that, even if he makes a mental note to never, _never_ look his brother in the eyes again. Yes, looking down is an awesome idea. “Never asked before,” he mumbles. “Sounds...good, though.”

 

"Mm, see! There's something. Ah, but honestly, why are you worried?" Fuji leans over, poking his hip. "You don't have to up the ante after you break up or anything. Just have fun." 

 

For just a second, Yuuta leans into that touch, tiny and fleeting as it is, and mumbles something completely unintelligible.

 

"Eh? What was that, Yuuta?" 

 

Yuuta clears his throat for a solid three seconds, then amends his original comment. “I mean, uh, what if I...want him to? But he’s, he’s not, uh...he doesn’t…” Dammit, if only some of those dreams didn’t start just like this, it wouldn’t be so stressful.

 

"Oh, is Mizuki _super_ vanilla? That's funny. I guess he was a virgin when he slept with you for the first time, wasn't he." That's still pure gold, really. "Just tell him what you want in plain Japanese. If you have a hard time saying it to his face, write him a cute note or something. You're so cute, Yuuta, he'll really love it." He wishes he were dead and he hopes Mizuki has the worst sex ever.

 

Yuuta turns his head, and moves around so he can bury it in his brother’s shoulder. Given the difference in their heights, it’s not that easy. “‘S’embarrassing to talk about this kind of thing,” he mutters, “but at least you’re not making it weird. Thanks.”

 

Fuji tries to feel the rage he felt a few hours ago about Mizuki and losing at tennis and everything else surrounding it. Nope, that's gone. Instead, he melts, and does so in the form of grabbing Yuuta tight and clinging for dear life. Ahhh, yes, he can die happy now, Yuuta getting close to him on purpose, Yuuta snuggling with him, Yuuta's _so cute_ \--"It's fine," Fuji happily breathes, nuzzling his face into Yuuta's hair. "I just want you to be happy, you know?"

 

“Aniki,” Yuuta says, muffled into his brother’s shoulder, “you’re kinda suffocating me. Just a little.”

 

"That's impossible, you're so much bigger and stronger than I am now! Ahh, you're so cute, Yuuta, just let me hug you a little longer--"

 

For once, Yuuta gives up and just lets him. He even wraps his arms around his brother, just for a _minute_. “Just don’t be weird about this later,” he says into Fuji’s hair. “I’m just...having a bad week.”

 

"For once, we have something in common," Fuji sighs, pretty sure that he'd melt off of the bed if Yuuta wasn't holding him back now. "But you beat me in tennis, so that's something good, right?" 

 

“Yeah. I guess.” Yuuta squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think of how his brother had looked, shaken and terrified, on that tennis court. “I didn’t want you to get upset or anything. That wasn’t what I wanted.”

 

"I'm just a bad loser." Fuji stuffs his face down into Yuuta's neck. "I was going to get upset no matter what. I'm glad you won, though; you've been working hard, and really deserve it." 

 

Yuuta pulls away slightly, breaking the embrace to try and study his brother’s face. “That’s not why you lost, right? I mean, I know you said it was real, but...Aniki, you _don’t lose_. I’ll believe you if you say it was fake. I won’t even be mad.” He will, probably, but not _that_ mad.

 

 _Nooo, don't stop cuddling me for the sake of this conversation._ Fuji promptly wriggles close again, peering up through his bangs. "I lose. I'm know I'm not where I should be in my game right now. You know I almost went to a tiebreak against Rikkai's Kirihara. Really not good."

 

Abruptly, Yuuta remembers when he’d first started going to Seigaku--how he’d been so inferior to his genius brother, been so unable to do _anything_ on the court--not an awful player, just not nearly as good. His brother had _helped_ him then, had stayed after, had volunteered a hundred times when Yuuta had pushed him away. “I’ll help you,” he says, hands firm on his brother’s shoulders. “I’ll practice with you all through Nationals, whenever you want.”

 

Fuji blinks, then sort of dissolves. Oh, no. Yuuta's _way_ too cute, and that's a problem. He has a hard time believing that Yuuta was yelling about how much he hated him just a day ago, especially when he's being _this cute_. "…Okay," he quietly says. He really doesn't care if it does nothing to help out his game-- _Yuuta_ wants to play with him again. "I really appreciate it, Yuuta." 

 

“Don’t go getting all weird about it. This is going to help out my game, too,” Yuuta warns him. “Then when I get to high school, we’ll be rivals again!” Still, it feels different--less like charity, more like brothers just helping each other, now that he’s beaten him. He gives a wry smile. “Honestly, now that it’s over, I don’t even know why it was all _that_ important for me to beat you. It’s not like I wanted to hurt you or anything, Aniki.”

 

"This is why you're so cute." Fuji reaches up, squishing Yuuta's cheeks before he can help himself. "Really, really cute. Don't worry, you didn't hurt me. I'm just a sore loser, it's nothing personal. Remember that time I placed second at the U-13 Regionals in figure skating and how I nearly threw my skates at the judges? I _still_ think those scores were rigged." He had been so pretty, it was a _crime_. 

 

“You _did_ throw them,” Yuuta points out dryly. “Neesan just caught them. Ah, I don’t suppose you think she might make raspberry pie tonight?” he asks, hopeful about food now that things are a little less weird.

 

"The point was that I wanted to cut someone, though…" Fuji mumbles before releasing Yuuta. "I can ask her. She'll probably do it if you promise to spend the night." 

 

Yuuta hesitates. “Um...I was going to call Mizuki-san first,” he admits, “and see if he wanted to, I don’t know...if he wanted that ticket, at least, I guess. If he wants to see me tonight--I mean, he probably won’t, but you said he _might_ …”

 

Foiled again, but this time, it's all his own doing. "Call him," Fuji hears himself say even though he's mostly focused on fighting back the urge to grind his teeth. "I'll talk to Neesan and see if she'll bake you something either way."

 

“Great!” He might be a little too excited about that pie. Whatever, it’s the world’s best pie, and he’ll fight anyone who says different. He picks the phone out of his pocket, heart thudding hard as he does, and asks anxiously before he dials, “You’re _sure_ he’ll say yes, right? I mean...there are so many other guys he could be with…”

 

 _Not big, strong guys that want him to bone them into a mattress._ "He'll definitely say yes," Fuji confirms, sliding off of the bed. "Good luck, Yuuta. I'll give you your privacy."

 

_Because I literally can't listen to any part of this conversation without wanting to die._

 


	17. Atobe & Tezuka

Tezuka stays in Kyushu for as long as humanly possible.

 

He knows, theoretically, that he should check in with his family and his team as soon as he arrives back in Tokyo. Theories, however, don't always coincide perfectly with what he wants, and that's why he ultimately ends up at one (of many) of Atobe's mansions.

 

It's to check on the status of a few things, he tells himself.

 

It's not because he misses his so-called boyfriend after three weeks of being away. 

 

Immediately upon being seen in, there's Beat, attempting to leap up into his arms as if he's a pomeranian instead of an afghan hound. That, at least, hasn't changed a bit. 

 

It isn’t more than a moment after the dog leaps up that a strong young man follows, leaping nearly from the doorframe into Tezuka’s arms, only not tackling him by an extremely slim margin. “Kunimitsu! Only one person makes Beat make that bark, I _knew_ it was you!”

 

Arms full of dog and boyfriend, Tezuka rather feels like the-husband-returned-home-from-magical-adventure, a la trashy fantasy novel number five. Does that make Atobe his excitable wife? Probably. "Your sixth sense never fails to astound," he grunts, setting the dog down (it doesn't help, Beat starts climbing him) in favor of actually properly catching and holding Atobe. "Yes, it's me, Keigo." 

 

Atobe gently lifts (and tosses) the dog on his merry way before claiming his prize, quite happily leaping into Tezuka’s arms before he realizes. “ _Scheiss_ , your arm, I’m scattered by your arrival,” he says in dismay, jumping down and picking Tezuka up instead. “Did I break it? Are you ruined? I’ll provide for you the rest of your life, my beloved rival.”

 

"Keigo, put me down." The height difference doesn't exactly make it easy for Atobe to ever lift him, anyway, even if Tezuka has been told on every occasion that he weighs 'nothing.' "My arm is fine--that _was_ the point of all that recovery time, you know."

 

Atobe does as he’s bid, though he can’t resist dipping and kissing his boyfriend just _once_. What kind of a romantic would that make him, anyway? “And it was quite successful, I see! Excellent. You’ll need it for when you face Hyoutei in the finals. I won’t hear of anyone but you leading our biggest rival.”

 

Tezuka straightens up with a huff, using the need to shove his glasses up as an excuse to hide the brief flush that cuts across his face. "Damn," he mutters. "That's right. You _did_ get a ticket into Nationals. I believe I was tuning out your presence at the drawing in the midst of the testosterone explosion." 

 

“It was quite remarkable. So rude to say you forgot me, Kunimitsu,” Atobe chides, sliding an arm around Tezuka’s waist to lead him to the back of the manor. “I was using all my powers of concentration to keep my hands and eyes off you. My god, you _do_ tan up nicely.”

 

"You aren't anywhere near our block, though; enjoy facing Rikkai," Tezuka deadpans, letting Atobe haul him along and ignoring the comment about his tan. Spending the summer in Kyushu is not exactly kind. "The more I've looked at the block that Seigaku is in, the more I'm concerned, especially after hearing that Echizen has been skipping practice, and Fuji has been losing practice matches." 

 

Atobe’s eyebrow climbs slightly at the news about Fuji. “Worried, Kunimitsu? You shouldn’t be. If anything, your block looks like a snooze, and you don’t need to worry about Ryouma.” He winces briefly. “Shit, is that mentioning it? I know I’m not to do that.”

 

"The fact that it's so easy is what concerns me." Drawn into Atobe's room, Tezuka is quick to collapse, flopping down into the nearest chair. "Tell me that you've been helping him practice tennis and I really, really don't care what else has been going on." 

 

Atobe wastes absolutely no time in climbing into the chair with Tezuka. Yes, this is perfect. Tezuka is horrendously bony, and he’s grown to miss that like an phantom limb when he’s gone. Fuck it all, he’s definitely in love, how quaint. “We play tennis the vast majority of the time,” he assures Tezuka, slowly winding himself around the other boy. “He’s improving by leaps and bounds, really. I’ve rarely seen such drive.”

 

That's all Tezuka needs to hear, really. He exhales a long sigh, tension that he wasn't even aware of leaving his body the moment that Atobe curls up on and around him. He's a furnace, and Tezuka has decided that's a very good thing, especially when he can sort of…curl up and tangle his arms and legs around Atobe and keep him close with no hope of escape. "Did you ever tell him that the person he played and lost to was Yukimura?" 

 

“No.” Atobe wishes briefly that he had suckers. Anything to keep Kunimitsu curled up with him is a plus, after only a few weeks away. Christ, he’s turning into a lovelorn maiden. How trite. “He has no idea I even met his opponent. Knowing how shaken he already is, I thought it inappropriate to make him even more fearful by revealing the name of his future rival. No reason to scare him senseless when it can be a figment of his imagination, or a wandering tennis monk for all he knows.”

 

"He's going to figure it out at Nationals, though." Tezuka promptly shoves his face into Atobe's hair, which is always sort of mystifyingly soft, no matter how much dye or bleach he goes through. He also always smells good, and that's something that Tezuka didn't realize he missed until right about now. "If he ends up losing his mind when he finally sees Yukimura," he mutters, "I'm blaming you." 

 

“Look, Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, winding even his _fingers_ around Tezuka, unable to sacrifice any contact whatsoever after three bloody difficult weeks, “he can either be terrified for a long period of time or a short period of time. Take your pick. _God_ , you smell good.”

 

Tezuka opens his mouth to complain about Atobe's handling of the whole Yukimura vs. Echizen situation anew, but gives up. It's strange to talk about one's teammate, protege, and more-or-less adopted little brother when wrapped up around one's boyfriend. "We're somewhat disgusting right now, I think," he settles upon instead with a sigh. 

 

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Atobe tucks his face into Tezuka’s...neck, probably, and inhales deeply. “Mmm….I had thought to tackle you and have you on the ground as soon as you got home,” he says, somewhat ruefully, “but all I can think of is making sure you don’t _ever_ leave again. Give me a few minutes to sort of absorb you.”

 

"…I don't mind being absorbed." His glasses are getting in the way of shoving his face against Atobe's skin, so off they go, tucked away onto a side table before Tezuka winds himself right back around the other boy. "I probably smell like suntan lotion, don't get too into that." 

 

“No, I’m keeping you away from the sun. You’re not allowed to crisp. You just smell sort of...outdoorsy.” Atobe’s mouth is brushing across skin, so perhaps that counts as a kiss. It’s close enough, just another extension of how he’s pretty sure there’s no such thing as close enough. “Name a place. I’ll take you there after Nationals. Sky’s the limit. Actually, no, we can go to space if you want, I have a guy.”

 

Tezuka almost laughs at the ridiculousness of that. "I've been gone for too long to enjoy the idea of space," he dryly says, finally finding a good position where he can sort of…tuck Atobe up against his chest and underneath his chin and properly wrap all four limbs around him. Yes, good. "I just want to be somewhere quiet and low-stress for awhile." 

 

As much as Atobe enjoys being able to lead Tezuka through wonders of the world (and of, ah, private time), he _does_ enjoy being tucked up like a particularly cherished package. “Personally, I’d prefer not to leave this spot for a good week or two,” he says, muffled against Tezuka’s chest. “Bathroom breaks permitted.”

 

"Same," is the quiet admission into Atobe's hair. "But Nationals start tomorrow, and that means noise and stress for another solid week. We're going to watch Rikkai's match tomorrow. If you take Hyoutei to watch Shitenhouji's, I'll trade information with you." 

 

“Perfect.” Everything about having Tezuka back is, anyway. Hell, Atobe tells him as much. “You being here is perfect, Kunimitsu. I expect you to take responsibility for domesticating me. I was quite a rake.”

 

"Yes. Now you're something of a housewife." 

 

Atobe sighs, and gently nips at the skin closest to his teeth. “Rude. What does that make you, my dashing husband returned home from the wars?” 

 

 _Stop it,_ he thinks in horror at his slowly-rising penis.

 

Tezuka gives into the urge to pinch Atobe's ass. It's honestly nothing short of hilarious that Atobe apparently likes being a housewife. "Probably. Is it Atobe Keiko now?" 

 

Atobe surrenders. “As long as you don’t think I’m going to let you top or anything,” he says, huffing out a breath into Tezuka’s chest. “Honestly that whole dichotomy is so _Japanese_.”

 

"Literally nothing would make my penis softer." 

 

Atobe’s laugh is more of a startled snort. “That’s something, at least. I’m _certainly_ keeping you, my prize of war.” He nuzzles his nose into Tezuka’s chest ( _hairless, still so odd_ ). “Don’t you have any desires apart from my glorious self? Anything you might be...more hesitant to reveal? I know you read those novels, you must have ideas.”

 

"Don't you already know enough about how weird I am?" Tezuka mutters, though he's mostly unfazed by this line of questioning. "Honestly, Keigo--excuse me, Keiko. Your 'glorious self' is more than enough to handle on most days." 

 

Atobe grabs the nearest skin he can find and deals it a firm pinch. “Is that it?” he demands, still laughing a bit. “You want to see me in some sort of Yamato Nadeshiko getup? I can’t say _nothing_ would make my penis softer, but that’s fairly high on the list of things about which I’m firmly ambivalent…”

 

Tezuka rolls his eyes, and frees one arm to smack at Atobe's hand. "Pass. Definite pass. You are about as far from a Yamato Nadeshiko as one can imagine, and that ideal has never appealed to me, anyway." 

 

Atobe grabs that hand, then brings it to his mouth for a kiss, and a delicate nibble on the end of one fingertip. “What ideals do appeal to you, my sweet war-prince? I think you’ll find me quite accommodating. I wouldn’t want you to get bored, after all. Choose anything, we’ll consider it a coming-home present.” He’s missed Tezuka so much, he’d probably even let him top.

 

Probably.

 

Well, the sentiment is there, but fortunately, it won’t be put to the test.

 

"Sweet war-prince," Tezuka just has to repeat, deadpan, though he's starting to get a little more than distracted by the way Atobe's mouth is near his hands. "…You know most of everything, anyway. Everything else requires far too much work for today." 

 

“All I know,” Atobe argues, giving one of those long, elegant fingers a flick of his tongue, “is that you like it when I press you into the mattress, stuff you full, call you filthy names, and treat you as if your only purpose in life is to keep my cock warm. Does that sound about accurate?”

 

"…Do you _have_ to list it all like that…" It starts making his mind click off, and that's not conducive for conversation. Hopefully, Atobe realizes that, even when he sort of starts to melt down into the chair, fingers curling. 

 

Shit, he’s gone too far. He never gets _any_ interesting information out of Tezuka this way, even if he does get just about everything else he wants out of it, more often than not.

 

Oh, well.

 

Atobe’s lips curl into a smile, and he slides his hands up Tezuka’s torso, lingering on his nipples, tugging and pinching. That usually does as well as anything to get him started. “What if I made you pierce these, Kunimitsu?” he breathes, shifting slightly, mouth moving against Tezuka’s neck. “I could put a chain through them, and lead you around like a pretty pet.”

 

He _might_ have been leading an active fantasy life while Tezuka was away. It’s just possible.

 

Apparently, Atobe realizes and doesn't care. _That's fine, too,_ Tezuka absently decides, shivering and jerking with those first few pinches. The less he has to talk about _his_ weird fantasies, the better. Atobe's are better, anyway. "…Whatever you want," is the groan to follow, the mental image accompanying that making his toes curl as he slides a hand up to cling at the back of Atobe's shirt. 

 

“That’s right,” Atobe breathes, not even bothering to tear Tezuka’s clothes off, not when he can get what he wants by rearranging slightly. He leans down, grabbing Tezuka’s hand and bringing it up between his legs. “Whatever I want. That’s what I’m going to do with you, Kunimitsu. Touch it, show me how much you’ve been thinking about it. Any humiliating dreams, down in Kyuushuu?”

 

As much as he doesn't particularly like anyone touching _his_ cock, Tezuka would be the worst liar _ever_ to say that it didn't turn him on almost more than anything to have Atobe just grab his hand like that and shove it against his own. Yes, that's a lot of blood rushing south in his veins right now. "Every other night," he weakly admits, swallowing hard when his fingers tentatively curl around the hard line of Atobe's cock, feeling it pulse underneath the press of his palm. "I don't remember them, but…they're only ever about you." 

 

Tezuka is so unfair. Everything about him sends Atobe into a frenzy, even when he’s quite sure he’d just wanted to cuddle today. “You’ll be the death of me,” he groans, and probably shouldn’t sound quite so happy about it. “When you lie on your dreadfully uncomfortable futon and touch yourself,” he purrs, nipping at Tezuka’s earlobe, tugging it in his teeth, “do you think about me inside you? I can give you a toy to wear when you miss me, Kunimitsu. It’s not as good as the real thing, but I’m not sure anything but _this_ —” punctuated with a thrust of his hips into Tezuka’s hand— “will satisfy you anymore.”

 

Tezuka is going to die. 

 

Those teeth on his skin, Atobe's voice in his ear, the way his cock feels hot and heavy in his hand even through his slacks--yes, he's going to die. He shudders, melting a little more, the compulsion to grab at Atobe's cock and squeeze is strong and impossible to resist as he throws a long leg over Atobe's hip, _trying_ to keep him close in the event he thinks about moving away. "I…" It always takes a moment to think of words when he's this glazed over, when Atobe keeps whispering those things into his ear and making his brain click off. He licks his lips, anxious, too hard to think straight at all. "I can't…unless it's you, I can't get off." Embarrassing to admit, god, but it's _true_. "Any time that I'm…away from you--I just--" 

 

The first sound that Atobe lets out is completely unintelligible, the next morphing into a groan of “ _Kunimitsu_ —”

 

He’s done. The switch has been flipped, and the cuddling is a thing of the past. Atobe grabs Tezuka firmly and throws him onto the bed, leaving his own clothes on but ripping Tezuka’s off, tossing them over his shoulder before he shoves Tezuka down into the bed and pins him there. “It’s because you’re trying to be so good for me,” he growls, one hand around Tezuka’s neck (gently), the other grabbing his thighs to spread them apart. “You know you don’t deserve to get off unless you’re getting me off, isn’t that it, my lovely pet?”

 

That's the last little switch in his own mind, flipped and locked into place with the key thrown right down the drain. Tezuka can't _breathe_ and that has nothing to do with the hand around his neck, which does nothing to hold him down but does _everything_ to make him melt into a trembling puddle. His cock aches, straining between his thighs, dripping onto his stomach, hard to the point that his eyes cross from it and every brush of Atobe's hands on his skin is torture. 

 

When was the last time that he got off and _remembered_ it? Wet dreams don't count. Tezuka's voice cracks on a whimper when he thinks of answering, and he gives up, desperately lurching upward, grabbing at Atobe, too far gone to think at all. "Please," he chokes out, clinging, his nails scratching a little in the process. "Keigo, I need it, I _can't_ \--" 

 

“I know.” The words are soothing for all his dominance, and Atobe’s hands are more sure and practiced than they are gentle. The hand around Tezuka’s neck looks good, makes him sigh. “I’m going to get you a collar, Kunimitsu,” he says, though he won’t do anything of the kind and they both know it. “Then everyone will know who you belong to. Open your legs, show me what’s mine.”

 

The downside to having a big bed (and he has a bed that could comfortably sleep a few couples with wild sleeping habits) is that there are no nightstands terribly close. He grimaces at the pause, but rolls off briefly, rummaging in the stand until he finds the bottle he’s looking for, using it to slick up his fingers and cock.

 

The brief pause is enough to help Tezuka remember how to _breathe_ again, at least. He shuts his eyes, his chest heaving as he just lets his legs fall open, _trying_ not to think about the idea of that collar and what it would mean, because that just makes his cock ache and that _hurts_ now, to the point he has to blink away tears.

 

"…It's been like this for weeks." He's pathetic, he knows it, but _nothing_ works. Something's probably wrong with him, Tezuka knows, but… "I hate being away from you." 

 

This time, it’s Atobe who has to remember how to breathe.

 

He swallows hard, looking down between Tezuka’s legs, and his own stomach churns in sympathy. “Christ, Kunimitsu, you’re _blue_.” He reaches out to touch, but no--that’s not what he needs. As much as Atobe can’t imagine being so hard for so long, a little handjob isn’t what Tezuka needs right now. To be honest, he’ll probably come the first second they’re together anyway.

 

“I’m not going to get you ready,” he groans, adding more lube to his cock, rubbing it around until it catches on Tezuka’s hole. The tightness of it almost makes him pass out, and he bites his lip, looking down into Tezuka’s face. “Such a slut, Kunimitsu,” he pants, and pushes. “I bet that’s all it takes for you, isn’t it?” God, he hopes so.

 

What's left of coherent thought soon clicks off, and that's for the best. 

 

Tezuka's never been bad at this part, at least, knowing his body as well as he does. He's better at it when Atobe takes the time to make _everything_ slick and ready, but this is fine, too. More than fine, because god, Atobe's cock is big and thick and _hot_ when it pushes inside him, even just those first few inches and--

 

And he just gives up. 

 

Tezuka doesn't feel himself _come_ as much as he does feel his body gratefully _give in_. Dimly, Tezuka realizes that he makes a grab for Atobe's back and clings to him when he shudders down to his core, his voice breaking on half a dozen whimpers when Atobe's in him even a little bit and he's coming all over his stomach  in long, desperate pulses. All that trembling doesn't really _stop_ , even once he's sagging into the bed, his legs splayed as wide as he can manage to just let Atobe fuck him, and Tezuka isn't sure if he'll ever really breathe normally again. _Good_. 

 

“There we go,” Atobe breathes. _God, but Seigaku is full of whores,_ he thinks wryly, between this and the way Ryouma goes whimperingly boneless whenever he’s all the way inside. Irritably, he shoves the brat from his mind. Nothing could be better than what he has _here_ , than Tezuka Kunimitsu’s ultimate surrender.

 

He wraps his arms around Tezuka, kissing his face over and over again as he presses in deep, letting him ride out the shocks before he starts moving. This is more than usual, more intense than usual, and Atobe doesn’t want to _hurt_ him, after all. “I can finish another way,” he offers, and there’s not an ounce of hesitation in it. “Is it too much?” His hands are gentle now, softly touching caresses, and he holds himself as still as he can while still buried hilt-deep.

 

Tezuka's head shakes slowly side to side, chest still heaving, still blinking away tears, still not quite hearing everything, but the insinuation of it being too much--"Too much," he agrees somewhat hoarsely, but he grabs at Atobe with shaky hands all the same, his thighs coming up to squeeze at the other boy's waist, needy, desperate no matter how he shakes. "But good. Don't stop, Keigo." 

 

“God, I love you,” Atobe gasps in English, eyes shutting as he moves. He can at least give Tezuka a little while to adjust, rocking gently inside him, littering his shoulders with little bites, holding him close. It’s the most intimate position they’ve ever fucked in, and Atobe can feel every breath. “Never going to let it get this far again,” he promises, not quite sure of which language he’s using. “Just call me--I’ll be there with the jet, I’ll take care of you, you know I treat you right. Feeling good yet, Kunimitsu?”

 

A good portion of that's in English, but that's fine. Tezuka's mind is working a little more now that he's not so painfully wound up, and he's spent a good portion of his free time in the past year learning the language better for a _reason_. "Always feels good," he mumbles, admittedly in Japanese (slurred, sticking to his tongue), but that's because even if he can understand, he doesn't trust a lick of _anything_ that comes out of his mouth in moments like these. Atobe presses in long, and deep, and Tezuka just shudders, his back arching with that movement, toes curling against the bedsheets when he writhes down onto Atobe's cock, his hands splaying against the other boy's spine. Yes, it's _definitely_ starting to feel _good_. "K…Keigo…please--" _Take care of me._

 

“Shh, I’ve got you, Kunimitsu.” Atobe laughs, rocking gently into Tezuka’s body, filling him as far as he can go with every easy thrust, and his hands come up to caress Tezuka’s face. “You need a shorter name. Something easier to say in the heat of things.” 

 

Tezuka is tight as a vice, but if Atobe has one thing going for him, it’s his self-control, his stamina.

 

Also, he hasn’t exactly been chaste while Tezuka’s away.

 

That control lets him stop to kiss Tezuka, slow and long, nibbling on his lip as he surges inside him. “I’ve got you. Just let go and enjoy.”

 

"Sorry," Tezuka mutters, his hands curling against Atobe's back when he feels how _deep_ he's in. It doesn't matter if he's still feeling sore and overused and _done_ , his cock _wants_ to be hard again, and it's making a valiant effort to make that happen. 

 

"Like the way you say it, though," he mindlessly admits, his fingers sliding up, grabbing at Atobe's hair when he's kissed, when Atobe just _stays_ inside of him and Tezuka can squirm down onto his cock as much as he likes. _Missed not hearing you say it, no one else uses that name, says it like that._

 

There’s nothing about Tezuka that doesn’t do him in, and Atobe is gleefully lost. Every deep kiss is better than the last, and Atobe _makes_ them last. “Take your time,” he whispers, and thrusts in deep, holding there for a minute to let Tezuka _writhe_. “I’m not letting you go until you’re fully satisfied, even if you beg.”

 

There’s a need for more lube after several minutes, though, and Atobe pulls out just long enough to slick himself again before sliding home, and god, it _feels_ like home. 

 

He wavers for a moment--is this really the time for confessions?--and admits into Tezuka’s shoulder, “Not one other person calls me by my name. Just you.” His father refers to him as _my heir_ if at all, Mother calls him the abominable _KeiKei_ , and to everyone else he’s either _Atobe-sama_ or _Bocchan_. 

 

God, he’s lost in Tezuka.

 

That long, _slick_ slide pulls the breath from Tezuka's lungs anew, and he melts for a moment, his head lolling back, his fingers clutching at Atobe's shoulders. "Good," he exhales in spite of himself, dragging a hand down Atobe's spine. "Then it's just for me." 

 

Normally, he'd be far too embarrassed to say that, but god, who _cares_ , he says enough nonsense around Atobe anyway, and he's never been mocked, not even once. "Keigo," Tezuka mumbles, a little mindless, lurching up to mouth a wet, inaccurate kiss to Atobe's mouth. "If…if you turn over, I'll ride you." 

 

“Nn, _Kunimitsu_ —” 

 

The word is broken as Atobe nods, strong arms grabbing Tezuka’s hips and flipping them over. His first instinct is to sit up and help the other boy, guide him up and down with every motion, but…

 

“I want to watch you.” Atobe rests back on his elbows, eyes drinking in the sight of Tezuka, tanned and healthier than Atobe’s ever seen him, lithe form glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, sticky already with one release, cock hardening again as he moves. “Let me see you enjoy it. Take what you need.”

 

Normally, this makes Tezuka nervous. It doesn't let him just hide his face into Atobe's shoulder or behind his own arm, nor does it give him the opportunity to just melt and give _up_. Like this, though, Atobe's cock is even deeper inside of him, and Tezuka shudders long and hard as he wriggles down, his thighs trembling, bunching as he moves. 

 

The _best_ is when he leans back just a little bit. Something about that makes Atobe's cock press _perfectly_ inside of him, and Tezuka jerks, biting his lip to strangle down a groan, even though his cock twitches and throbs when he slides a hand back, bracing it on one of Atobe's knees to better grind down like that _again_ , sweat trickling down his spine when his back arches.

 

Atobe is pretty sure that he used to have some kind of stamina.

 

One urgent wriggle from Tezuka, and all thoughts of that go out the window. His mind shorts out briefly into static, and it’s with a strangled groan that he manages not to just come immediately. It’s delicious torture to hold still, to let Tezuka do as he wills, and the best part about it is that he gets to _watch_. That, more than anything, makes it all worthwhile.

 

“You find something good, Kunimitsu?” he gasps, rolling his hips up again to slide into Tezuka when he moves like that again. Atobe knows full well what it is he’s found, and his eyes lid at the pressure around his cock, squeezing him with every needy thrust. “Watching you--you’re going to make a _mess_ —”

 

 _I’m going to make a mess_ , he thinks ruefully, hands clenching from the effort of not simply grabbing Tezuka and _slamming_ him down. It’s worth it, god, it’s so fucking worth it.

 

There goes any and all attempts to keep his voice down. Atobe's hips rolling up to meet him makes that long, drawn-out press against his prostate all the more mind-numbing, and Tezuka's voice breaks on a breathy, mindless groan, his cock dripping on Atobe's stomach now, no matter how much and how hard he came before. 

 

The next long, aching grind of his hips down is enough to make his vision white out briefly, and Tezuka can't think with the way that his body twitches and shivers. All he can process is lurching forward briefly, just long enough to grab at one of Atobe's hands, because if Atobe's not going to grab him, Tezuka's going to do it himself--this time, drawn up to his mouth where his lips wrap hungrily, desperately around a pair of Atobe's fingers as he wriggles down as much of Atobe's cock as he can.

 

Well, it had been fun to watch Tezuka when he’d had that self-control. It was nice while it lasted, Atobe reflects briefly, and curls his fingers on Tezuka’s tongue, delving into his mouth and listening to the obscene noises that come from his lips. 

 

That’s all it takes--that and a groan of, “ _Fuck, Kunimitsu_ —” are all he can think before his other hand is on Tezuka’s waist, his hips snapping up to fill Tezuka again and again. He lurches forward for leverage, and knows that his fingers are carving finger-shaped bruises into pale flesh--and that both of them like it that way. “Ride me hard,” he grunts, sliding his fingers entirely into Tezuka’s mouth. “Come on, get me off, I’m so close, show me what you can do—”

 

Tezuka's moans are sloppy around Atobe's fingers, and that's really the best way for them to be. 

 

It was nice to find the right places to move that felt good to _him_ , but honestly, _anything_ feels good with Atobe, especially like this. Tezuka lurches forward and makes a solid grab at the bed's headboard, the leverage more than enough when he plants his knees to grind down onto Atobe's cock, his breath ragged and unsteady through his nose when he writhes down hard and insistent. He doesn't really have to try. Every muscle bunches up like this without him even thinking about it, and that makes his own eyes roll back and flutter shut, every noise he makes muffled and wet and _desperate._  

 

Tezuka is almost there--Atobe can read it in him, but he’s close himself, and it’ll take more than physical closeness to get Tezuka there. That’s the thing about Tezuka--he’s a cerebral creature, enough so that even he doesn’t know how much, and getting him to open up and _enjoy_ could have been one of the most difficult things he’d ever done--except it isn’t.

 

It isn’t, because he understands Tezuka, and Tezuka trusts him.

 

Atobe leans up and grabs Tezuka’s hair, shoving him down to his back. “Your legs must be cramping and aching by now,” he breathes, eyes alight as his hand fists in that soft brown hair, yanking on it a bit. His hips flex, cock driving deep inside Tezuka with every breath, and god, he’s _so_ close. “I’m getting off in you,” he continues, breath coming in pants against Tezuka’s ear as he slams in hard. “Maybe I’ll finish you off after. Maybe I’ll just--make you walk around dripping with your cock hard for a while.”

 

That thought is too much, and Atobe groans, head thunking down against Tezuka’s chest when it finally rips its way out of him. He hasn’t come like this in ages--since the last time he’d seen Tezuka--and the force of it shocks even him.

 

Atobe knows him so well that it's just _scary_. 

 

Or it would be scary, if it were anyone else. With Atobe, it's never too far, never _really_ too much, and that's good, because if it were, Tezuka thinks he'd die. He already feels pretty close to death when he feels Atobe spill, hot and slick and so much that he can feel it dripping out of him when Atobe moves even the slightest bit. That makes Tezuka's own breath stutter and catch up in his chest, his back arch, his legs splay wide as he whimpers, lurching up just _once_ so that his cock slides against Atobe's stomach--and fuck, he's _gone_. 

 

It's different than the orgasm he had earlier--not digging into his very bones, but intense to the point that he shudders and jerks long after that first wave. Still just as good, still mind-numbing, still enough to make him a limp mess on the bed afterwards, body decisively giving _up_. 

 

Atobe slumps over. It’s his turn to be noodles; he’s been awfully structured up until now. “That’s that,” he slurs, probably in Japanese. “You feel better, Kunimitsu? I can--if you need me again, I need six or seven minutes and an energy bar.”

 

"No." It's petulant, and very slurred, and also, very content. One of Tezuka's arms wraps around Atobe, thunking solidly against his back. "I'm _done_."

 

“Oh, thank the fucking lord.” That’s probably not Japanese, but swearing is _awful_ in Japanese, and the tone is pretty obvious. “w’time is it? Bedtime.” He answers his own question, bedtime a definitive fact regardless of clock time.

 

"Bedtime," Tezuka dimly agrees--at least, for the moment. He needs to sleep this off. Oishi can wait a few hours to know that he's coming home. His parents can, too. Especially since his mind is nothing but static and a whole lot of senseless, pointless things, like: "Why is your accent so _nice._ " 

 

“Is it?” Atobe smiles against Tezuka’s chest. “Quite right. Mm, yours sounds like your foreigner teacher was from somewhere in America, but it’s all mixed up with German pronunciation on your ‘s’s. Truly charming.” If he uses the word “lisp,” Tezuka might be offended, even though Atobe is honestly nothing but charmed.

 

"Need to fix that," Tezuka mumbles, certain that he probably won't unless Atobe stops calling it charming, and settles for slowly, unsteadily rolling them to the side. "Turn around. Spoon." He can _definitely_ speak three languages, his current coherency in his native tongue is proof of that. 

 

“Fuck, yes,” Atobe groans, and turns around, wriggling immediately back against Tezuka. No one is allowed to know he’s never the big spoon-- _no one_.

 

Yes, good. Their bodies fit together perfectly this way, and Tezuka immediately curls up around him, legs tangling and an arm limply thrown over Atobe's waist. "Thank you, Keigo," is the exhale against blond hair, and there are really no less than a dozen things Tezuka could be thanking him for, as far as he's concerned. 

 

Atobe has never in his life imbued a sentence with more sincerity. “Kunimitsu, it is truly my pleasure.”

 

~

 

It's just supposed to be a couple of hours.

 

When Tezuka wakes up, though, that's _definitely_ sunlight coming in through Atobe's curtains, and he just has to groan, rolling slowly over onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. Fuzzily, mind. His glasses are still somewhere, discarded in the midst of _cuddling_ , so there's really no telling. 

 

Apparently, this is just what happens when he's hit by the truck that is Atobe Keigo. 

 

Atobe, being one of the soundest of sleepers Tezuka has ever known, doesn't stir when Tezuka slides out of bed and disappears to shower and change. It's still early, thank god, or he'd _really_ be the worst captain that ever did grace the ranks of Seigaku. 

 

And it's not like they have a match today, besides. 

 

His mind is still fuzzy even after being thoroughly drowned by Atobe's shower (he'll never admit it, but he'd move in for that thing alone) and he's still tucking his shirt in and setting his glasses back on his face when he slowly drags himself from the bedroom, retracing the previous journeys he's taken to this particular manor's kitchen. Breakfast. He'll be able to function if coffee and rice. 

 

He doesn't, of course, bargain on Atobe's _father_ being there. 

 

He's actually in the middle of answering one of Oishi's worried texts to tell him yes, he'll be there, it'll be fine, get everyone ready to watch Rikkai's match and just relax when he _sees_ Atobe Ren and kind of…freezes for a moment. Really, how does one deal with this kind of situation? How European is he if he's the Japanese side of the family? Atobe never talks about his father and when he does, it's awkward and brief, and Tezuka doesn't push for that very reason--

 

This is why he doesn't socialize, let alone _date_. 

 

"…Good morning," Tezuka politely attempts, and his bow is probably a little bit too deep, but he'd like to make sure that he's covering all of his bases. Maybe breakfast really isn't necessary at all. At least, not here. He _should_ probably go home…

 

Atobe Ren looks up over his morning paper, then gives a seated bow. “You must be a friend of my son. Have a seat. Paper?” He nods to a servant, not calling him by name as Atobe is wont to do, and coffee is immediately provided. 

 

The servant gives a low bow (not the elegant European kind they usually give around Atobe, but a proper stiff Japanese bow), and stands silently, obviously awaiting some kind of order.

 

This is also why he rarely spends the night--or at least, doesn't leave Atobe's room until _he's_ awake, too, and sleepily going through the motions of being a human. How does one _people_ , exactly. How does one deal with people that are constantly in one's _house?_

 

Tezuka's phone buzzes after that initial text, but he doesn't dare look at it. Too impolite, probably Oishi freaking out still, unpleasant on all levels. "No, thank you. I'm Tezuka Kunimitsu, it's good to meet you." Nervously, Tezuka slides into his own seat, and glances hesitantly at the servant, wishing that he paid attention and had the same name recall that his boyfriend does (though it's weird, sometimes). "…Could I have some rice, please?" Then he can just leave, and make this entire thing a gratefully distant memory.

 

The servant gives Atobe Ren a quick glance, and picks up an almost imperceptible nod before hurrying away, coming back within the minute with a large bowl of steamed rice, setting out small saucers of seaweed, egg, bamboo, and salmon around the bowl. “Tea or coffee, sir?”

 

“I’ll take care of that,” Ren says, and even if it doesn’t sound like a dismissal, the servant bows once more and retreats. The master of the house gives Tezuka a look, then says, “You seem like a coffee man. Am I wrong, Tezuka Kunimitsu?” He plucks a cup from the cupboard, and pours a cup of coffee for Tezuka without waiting to hear the answer.

 

"Ah…no. You're right. Thank you, Atobe-san." _-sama?_ Fuck. He doesn't know, it's _Atobe's father._ Tezuka's gaze flits briefly sideways to the nearest clock, calculating how long it will take Atobe to wake up in the near future. It _can't_ be long, not if he wants to shower and preen as per usual before actually making it to the opening of Nationals on time. Breathe normally, just eat, then escape, then go back to being the shittiest captain that Seigaku ever saw by being late on the day of Nationals and not even showing up to plan the line-up on time because he was busy having sex with his boyfriend. 

 

Atobe Ren slowly folds up his paper, taking a drink of his coffee before speaking. “You seem like an intelligent boy. Do you know what I like about you, Tezuka-kun?” His face gives away nothing. He could easily be sitting at a high-stakes poker table. In his world, perhaps he is. “You seem to understand the concept of discretion. I value that just as much as my son does other qualities.”

 

Tezuka shrieks internally. 

 

Shit, shit, shit, he does not want this conversation, why is this happening. His fingers shake a little around his chopsticks. Can't blame the arm for that now, it's definitely anxiety. "…Considering I personally prefer the form of discretion that requires that I never leave the house, you're right, Atobe-san." Was that too dry. Probably. Shit. He's _serious_ , though, he'd never leave his room if he didn't have to, except for tennis. 

 

“Left-handed,” Atobe Ren muses, watching him eat. “Interesting. I’d thought you were more ambitious. Captain of a team headed for a championship, student council president...you accomplish all of that wishing you were locked in your bedroom?” He takes a sip of coffee, eyes penetrating.

 

 _Why does he have to stare so much._ _Rude, for one thing,_ Tezuka warily thinks, slowly eating. "I still just try to do my best. Somehow, those things end up in my lap, and seeing as no one else will handle them properly…I do it. Just because I'd prefer to be a hermit doesn't mean I don't have ambitions, sir." _It all_   _unfortunately requires some form of social interaction._

 

Atobe Ren nods once, a slow confirmation. Then, his eyes crinkle at the edges, just a touch, and he gives Tezuka a thin smile. “Athletics, no doubt. Do you have any plans for once your career is ended by that arm of yours?”

 

Tezuka really doesn't want to hear about how his arm is going to break again in the future, not after he spent over a month in rehabilitation for it. "Honestly, I'll probably live on a mountain and become a boring carpenter." 

 

Atobe Ren arranges his chopsticks neatly on a holder, and stands, pushing in his chair. “There’s nothing boring about being a carpenter, Tezuka-kun. Teach my son how to hold a hammer. Or take one billion yen to never see him again.” He says one sentence as casually as the next, taking a last sip of his coffee before setting down the empty mug.

 

That's…jarring. Frankly, horrifying, and enough to make his appetite disappear instantly. "Once Nationals is over, I'll teach him how to build a bookshelf." It's deadpan, but Tezuka really isn't joking. He'd like to think Atobe's father is, but he doubts it. 

 

“Good. He can use the practice. The other offer is off the table.” A quick nod to the servant, and the bowl and coffee mug are whisked away as if they’d never been. “Then again, you could just build a table, couldn’t you? Have a pleasant day.” With that, he’s gone, leaving behind the morning paper, which the servant silently offers to Tezuka.

 

 _What the fuck_.

 

Even after Atobe Ren _leaves_ , Tezuka is jittery and nervous. Downing his entire mug of coffee in about fifteen seconds doesn't help, and he excuses himself in the next breath. 

 

Is this a rite of passage or something? Tezuka has no idea, but he _does_ know that he's glad he left his tennis bag in Atobe's room, because he needs to sort of grab Atobe for at least five seconds to make up for _that_ experience. 

 

Atobe is just emerging from his room, yawning and stretching, when he nearly bumps into Tezuka. His face splits in a lazy, delighted grin, and he reaches out before noticing the look on his face. The smile fades, and he looks down the hall around Tezuka’s back, asking in a tone more at home in Oishi’s voice than Atobe’s, “Is my father here?”

 

" _Yes._ " Tezuka promptly yanks him back into the bedroom, shutting the door. "What the hell, Keigo. You could have warned me." 

 

Atobe swallows, and flips the lock shut on the door--not that it matters, if his father wants to get in, the servants have a master key. “I didn’t know he was going to be home, you _know_ he almost never is. Are you...is everything...fine?” He wishes he didn’t sound so _uncertain_.

 

"Well," Tezuka says, trying to ignore the beginnings of his own headache, because Atobe looks positively terrified and that's new, "after being praised for my discretion, patronized for my choice in potential careers, and then offered a billion yen to never see you again…I _think_ everything is fine. I told him I'd teach you how to build a bookshelf instead, and he seemed amicable." 

 

Atobe’s laugh is high and startled. “Just...thank you. Ah, I’m sorry, Kunimitsu, I really had no idea he was home.” He reaches out a hand, resolving not to look behind himself as he plucks at Tezuka’s collar. “More importantly, where are you going to learn how to build a bookshelf?”

 

Tezuka gives him an exasperated look. "Keigo. I helped build our family's cabin in Hokkaido; I think I can build a bookshelf." 

 

Atobe’s eyes go wide, and the looming specter of his father is banished for a moment. “Ah...Kunimitsu, you can’t just tell me things like that when we have to go to the tournament,” he admonishes. “You’re going to make me leap into your arms again, and that’s hardly becoming of two captains on the first day.” 

 

He waves a hand at the door irritably. “I’ll take us out through the servant’s quarters, I _don’t_ want to deal with him right now. Doubtless that will only last so long, but…”

 

"No, you don't have to sneak around in your own house." Even _he_ thinks that's ridiculous, really, and the more he thinks about it, the less terrified he is regarding Atobe's father, and the more he's annoyed. Tezuka pulls away to grab his own tennis bag. "I'll walk out with you. Give me your bag, you can finish getting ready at my house before we go to the tournament. We're already late, so we might as well cause a scene by making everyone think we're conspiring together." 

 

Atobe is entirely certain he is going to swoon. No, that won’t do, he’s Atobe Keigo, and no mere perfect specimen of a boyfriend is enough to tarnish his glorious manliness.

 

Even so, his voice comes out in a garbled whine, and he sneaks a kiss to Tezuka’s cheek before grabbing his uniform and bag, and handing over his tennis bag. 

 

It’s only as they’re walking out does it occur to Atobe that he never asked whether Tezuka had taken the money or not. He threads his arm through Tezuka’s, a fierce little smile on his face. Of course, he hadn’t needed to.


	18. Dinner Before the Semifinals

Yukimura is pretty good at attracting attention.

 

Marui doesn’t _think_ he’s particularly attuned to their captain’s comings and goings, but no one else seems to have noticed his appearance, however brief, during the match between Rikkai and Rokakku. Marui’s eyes flick over towards the end of his match--these guys are _losers_ , what a walk in the park--and almost says something before Yukimura disappears again.

 

Weird.

 

“Game and set won by Rikkai! Marui-Kuwahara pair, six games to love!”

 

Marui tears himself out of his thoughts to grin, pop a bubble, and shake hands with their exhausted opponents before giving Jackal a fistbump. He hands over his racket, gesturing to the stands. “Put this down for me? I need to run to the bathroom. Also, you missed a spot here.”

 

He pokes the offending hair, then heads off to the bathrooms, presumably in what passes for an attached clubhouse. He’ll say this much for Hyoutei--it’s a decent place, and everything is brand sparklingly new. After a brief pause to actually use the bathroom (sometimes the drinks go right through him if he doesn’t eat enough cake, and there could have been _more_ cake), he catches sight of Yukimura again. “Oi! Captain, I didn’t think you were coming today.”

 

The cheerfulness in Marui’s face, buoyed by the easy win, dies at the look on Yukimura’s face. 

 

The Captain looks _scared_.

 

So much for not attracting attention.

 

Yukimura was _hoping_ that he could avoid any and everyone, especially when he's not even dressed in his uniform save for his jersey tied around his waist. It was stupid to think someone wouldn't notice him sneaking a peek of the match; Sanada would have called him later, anyway, so there wasn't much of a point.

 

(So sue him for wanting to see _his_ team winning so _easily_ again.)

 

At least it's Marui. It's not Sanada, who he's frankly terrified of seeing right now. At least it's not Yanagi, who could start spewing numbers at any point. At least it isn't Kirihara, who never understands a thing, or Niou, who knows too much at a glance. It's Marui, someone Yukimura can fake a weak smile for as he tries not to hyperventilate when he thinks too much. "Hi. Sorry; I'm not sticking around, I just wanted to see how you all were doing." 

 

Now if only his heart would stop trying to thud its way out of his chest every five to ten seconds.

 

Marui smiles, but it’s a little uncertain, and he finds another spot on the bench. “Physical therapy take a lot out of you today, or--wait, you had a checkup, right? Hey, did you see we won?” Winning usually makes Yukimura happy, and he doesn’t really look happy.

 

"6-0, barely a point dropped. I didn't get to watch Yagyuu's match, but I'm assuming it was the same." Yukimura leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. "If you guys keep going at this rate, you won't even need me for the rest of the tournament."

 

“We’re your team,” Marui points out, kicking his feet out to the sides. “Of course we’re good. Did you see Akaya’s crazy lineup? It’s hilarious, he’s so mad now that he knows his match won't matter. I heard him begging Yanagi to throw the match.”

 

The smile Yukimura cracks this time is more genuine, though it's mostly directed at the floor, not Marui. "Sanada won't go for that, thankfully. Smack Akaya for me if he keeps at that crap, will you? You're my enforcer when I'm not around." 

 

“Sure,” Marui says, though they both know he’s not the _greatest_ at the whole “enforcement” thing. Sometimes he gets it confused with encouragement, or kinda goes along with whatever it is because he forgets he’s supposed to be watching Kirihara, and it’s not like he always has _bad_ ideas, and sometimes they sound _funny_ …

 

Marui tilts his head. “You okay? How was the check-up?”

 

"No," to the first question and, "Bad," to the second. Yukimura wavers, debating how much to say, trying to remember if Marui is as much of a gossip as Niou, and then starting to get upset that he has secrets to keep in the first place. "They, ah. They didn't actually clear me to play." His heart is beating so hard that he's pretty sure it's going to come through his chest. "But it's fine, because I already submitted the forms and those have gone through and I'm on the roster and all of that. The tournament officials don't need the updated ones, and I'm not telling them anything has changed." 

 

The bottom falls out of Marui’s stomach. Bad is... _bad_. His mouth dries, and he tries to process what Yukimura had said before immediately leaping to conclusions. Bad is…

 

“Have they started again?” It’s not a question he likes to ask, but it’s kind of important to know. “The numbness and everything?” He tries not to say what he’s thinking--that this isn’t _fair_ , that the surgery was supposed to fix everything, that there’s no reason he should have had to go through a horribly dangerous operation with a low chance of living if it was just going to _happen again_ —

 

Yukimura doesn’t need that. Sometimes, Marui can remember that he’s the oldest of all of them, and it’s his job to be at least a little bit mature.

 

"Not yet." He can't even say 'no.' Yukimura can't stop his shoulders from sagging now, not when Marui _gets it_. "But…all the bloodwork said that they didn't get everything, so the numbness will probably be back. I get goosebumps a lot, they said that's a sign." His next exhale is shaky. "And I guess I'm going to be playing the whole tournament with staples down my spine still because they won't take those out, either. Nothing's healing up right." 

 

Marui had forgotten the fear.

 

It had kept him up at night sometimes--not anything like the pulse-pounding anxiety he knows Yukimura must have felt, or the staggering loneliness Sanada had obviously been feeling, but he remembers feeling it. Yukimura is a beacon, a guiding force, a _dominating_ presence. He’s as much a part of the tennis team as the balls and racquets are, for everyone on Rikkai. The fear of losing that--of losing his friend--makes Marui’s insides churn.

 

But that doesn’t help Yukimura, either. Marui firms his jaw, and puts a hand on Yukimura’s shoulder. “Rikkai is here for you, and we always will be.” He pauses, then adds, “And I’m going to make you a cake.”

 

The suddenness of that particular statement mostly shocks Yukimura into laughing, even if it's a little wet on the edges. No, nope, not happening again, he's not going to turn into a crybaby, Sanada can't push that off onto him. "I could use a cake right now," he admits all the same, drawing in a long, shaky breath to steady himself. "Thanks, Bunta. But please don't tell anyone on the team; I really don't want everyone going through the tournament thinking about it. I'm sorry to burden you with that, but…"

 

Marui waves that away. “Compared to the other stuff I’m holding in, this is easy,” he confides. “Your secret’s behind many locked doors, Captain. And I’ll make that cake as soon as possible so you can _really_ feel better.”

 

"Mm, good. I look forward to your genius skills." Yukimura takes another breath before he straightens, squaring his shoulders. "Right. Don't tell Sanada I was here, and go back and cheer everyone else on for me. I'll probably be off practicing until I fall over, you know the drill." 

 

There’s just about nothing Marui can say to deter Yukimura when he’s like this, so he settles for, “Just make sure you’re not too tired to enjoy those genius skills, okay? Boy, they probably think I pooped a _lot_.”

 

Yukimura's expression is wry. "Just tell them you met a pretty girl and flirted with her for awhile." 

 

“Oh...that’s a _way_ better excuse.” Marui beams. “Thanks, Captain! I’ll cheer twice as hard for both of us, but I don’t think it’s going to last very long. I know Kirihara wants to set another record.”

 

"Good for him." Sometimes, Yukimura thinks he's leaving the tennis club in good hands for next year. Then he remembers that Kirihara regularly forgets his own street address, so there's that. "Just…thanks, Bunta." At least his heart doesn't feel like it's going to leap out of his chest--for the moment.

 

~

 

The Nationals, thus far, have been easy.

 

That makes Tezuka nervous. Breezing past schools that already showed lackluster performances in their own previous matches doesn't bring him any comfort, especially there's a distinct pattern emerging on the tournament bracket now that the quarterfinals have been finished and cleared. 

 

Rikkai dominates their bracket, Hyoutei theirs, Seigaku theirs, and, shockingly…Shitenhouji theirs. Having gone up against Higa, the surprise from Okinawa, Makinfouji Gakuen, the second seed, and then Shishigaku, the school both Chitose and Tachibana came from, and defeated every single last one of them soundly… 

 

Tezuka feels that he's right to be anxious, especially when their own wins have been easy, boring, and uneventful. 

 

That's why this is necessary. All of Seigaku (except Oishi, he has a brain) might be comfortable and excited to be going up against Shitenhouji the next day, but he isn't, and he needs more information. Tennis bag slung over one shoulder, Tezuka approaches the ranks of Hyoutei after their own quarterfinals victory of the day. 3-0, just like their own. "Atobe," he greets, inclining his head. "My team and I are going out for sukiyaki." Not his number one choice, but majority rules. Oh well. "Would Hyoutei like to join us?" 

 

Atobe almost smiles before getting it under control. No, a proper sneer is what’s truly necessary here, none of that smiling nonsense. “I suppose,” he says, long-suffering, “we can deign to attempt to eat such common fare. Ah, Kunimitsu, we _must_ make time to talk while we’re there. Important finals matters.”

 

His own team, thick as some of them are, refuse to accept that they’re going to go up against Rikkai again with the same result as the last time, years ago. Atobe, on the other hand, has been paying attention. Oshitari has as well, presumably, but he won’t stop crowing about how well his stupid sprinter cousin is doing, so he’s no help whatsoever.

 

"That's the idea," Tezuka dryly agrees, turning on his heel. "Your information for mine. The restaurant's within walking distance, come on."

 

"Are you sure this is okay?" Oishi whispers hushedly underneath his breath when Tezuka drifts back to his own team. "Sharing information with Hyoutei like this…" 

 

"I'm going to kill him," Tezuka says underneath his breath, even as he ignores a rather terrified looking Oishi. _Calling me_ Kunimitsu _in_ public--

 

“This is idiotic,” Oshitari says, not bothering to lower his voice (or his atrocious accent, no matter how Atobe instructs him) as they pull even with Seigaku on the way to the restaurant. “Atobe, if they win their match, we’ll be facing them in the final. Why would you want to give them extra information?”

 

“Tennis is a sportsman’s game,” Atobe announces. “Neither Tezuka nor myself fight dirty. You should be far more concerned with seeing to it that you and Gakuto don’t--Jirou, come on, out of traffic.” 

 

Jirou yawns, and this time he makes the step up to the curb. “Sorry! Ah, Kabaji, carry me to the food.”

 

"Usu." Jirou is, subsequently, scooped up and tossed over one broad shoulder.

 

Momoshiro snorts. "'Don't play dirty'--what the hell is that, after your last match with the captain--"

 

A bored, put-out "Momo-sempai" sounds at the same time as Tezuka's sharp "Momoshiro", making the second year blanch and scowl. 

 

"Let's all get along," Oishi firmly pleads. "We can all benefit from this, and if we see one another in the finals, all the better for it."

 

"I _have_ collected a great deal of data from Rikkai as of late," Inui gleefully agrees.

 

"Yuushi just spends all of his time watching his cousin," Gakuto snorts.

 

"I'm starting to think Rikkai doesn't _have_ a captain," Ryouma grumpily mutters.

 

“Oh, they have one,” Eiji assures him, giving a swift noogie for good luck. “He’s nine feet tall and breathes fire, and he only comes out if you play under a full moon. Right, Fuji?”

 

“He’s just been in the hospital,” Kaidou growls. “You wouldn’t make fun of Tezuka-buchou for needing to go into the hospital, Echizen. Show some respect.”

 

Ryouma growls back, yanking his hat down in an attempt to protect his head from more touching. "I'm not making fun of him. I'm just _saying_ , he didn't play at all in round one, and _we_ were playing stuff in round two and for some reason I had to play singles three so I didn't get to see if he was even _around_ \--"

 

"He's a demon," Fuji cheerfully cuts in. "Nicknames aside. You have to summon him with six Wilson racquets and 666 tennis balls."

 

Tezuka spares Atobe a sideways glance that speaks volumes of _have you ever wanted to kill your own team so badly._

 

Atobe’s look is amused, if anything, as his strides lengthen, just enough to catch up.

 

“Really?” Jirou wakes up, hands under his chin, elbows propped on Kabaji’s back. “Marui-kun never mentioned that! Does all of Rikkai have phones that only work for twenty minutes a month, like Marui-kun? I think that’s so sad!”

 

“Terribly tragic, since they’re all wealthy,” Oshitari says snidely. “And can certainly afford—”

 

Shishido punches him in the shoulder. “Stop explaining your own jokes, it’s _so_ lame.”

 

Atobe’s amused look drains away, replaced with something a lot closer to Tezuka’s.

 

Tezuka's eyes rise briefly skyward, as if begging for strength, and he holds open the door to the restaurant upon arriving it--presumably, to let his own team enter, but Atobe just happens to go first. Coincidentally. 

 

"How sad are you that we didn't invite Shitenhouji, Yuushi?" Gakuto snidely presses, nudging his doubles partner in the ribs. 

 

"But he has the right to be sad, doesn't he?" Ootori confusedly asks. "Obviously, he and his cousin are really close, so…"

 

The shopkeeper looks a bit stunned, as he should. "Oh, welcome, welcome! So many guests--let's see, we'll move to the back, there's more room for all of you--"

 

"Stay near me, Eiji," Oishi mutters underneath his breath.

 

"I'm sitting with Tezuka-buchou," Ryouma firmly says, grabbing hold of the back of Tezuka's jersey. Tezuka hides the brief, pleased look on his own face by shoving up his glasses. 

 

“Perfect!” Atobe beams, and looks around for someone to make his point--no, damn, he can’t have Hiyoshi sit next to him, he’s dreadfully unpleasant and kills any mood just by being in the same post code. “Ootori, come sit on my other side, it’ll be captains and rookies at the head of the table.”

 

“Oi,” Shishido snarls, “he’s no _rookie_ , Atobe—”

 

Atobe’s eyes flash dark at him in that way that says _The Captain is making a point and you can either be a part of it or be obstructive to it._ “He’s a second-year, close enough. It’s settled, then!” Besides, Ootori is one of the few people on his team that he can trust not to have any odd designs on Seigaku or its captain, courtesy of how obliviously moonstruck the younger boy is over his doubles partner. “Kabaji, is there a menu in this place? Oh, look, it’s printed on the tablecloth. How quaint.”

 

"I'm honored, Atobe-san!" Ootori is now fairly sparkling. Hiyoshi mutters something about this being the true start of the revolution, at long last.

 

"Oh," Fuji sighs sadly. "I wanted to sit near you, Tezuka. It's been so long--"

 

"Fuji," Oishi quickly says, grabbing the boy gently by the shoulder to steer him away. "Sit next to Eiji and I. Taka-san, you, too." 

 

Tezuka simply sighs, settling himself down and trying not to be annoyed by everyone. This does serve a purpose, after all, and he has to keep reminding himself of that. 

 

Once they sit down, Atobe attempts to ignore everyone else, leaning in close to Tezuka. “Let’s get down to this,” he says firmly, “before they either decide to blow something up or go screw in the bathrooms.” It’s open season on which “they” he’s referring to, and honestly, it could be almost anyone. “I have notes. Kabaji,” he calls, “my notepad. _No_ , not that one,” he says hastily, seeing a leatherbound green notebook marked _Food Journal April-August_ come out of the bag, and it’s stuffed immediately away. “The _blue_ one, I told you which one I needed to see.”

 

Tezuka, being faster than Kabaji, promptly reaches around Atobe and gracefully snatches the whole bag from the other boy's grasp. "Thank you, Kabaji. So you keep journals, too, Atobe? Interesting." 

 

"Oh, are we comparing notes now?"

 

Inui has this _habit_ of appearing behind him at all times, and Tezuka feels a full-body twitch ripple down his spine. "Inui. Just give me your notebook." 

 

"Some of my shorthand might need explanations--"

 

"Inui."

 

Rather moodily, the notebook is handed over, and Inui sulks his way back to his seat. All notebooks, acquired. 

 

“You,” Atobe says firmly, “need to give me that, it’s nothing _important_ , just how I keep track of how much I eat. As we both know, keeping an athlete’s physique doesn’t happen without effort.”

 

“Excuse me, sir,” the waitress chirps--and Atobe spies Kikumaru’s finger on the button to summon her as the culprit. 

 

Without thinking, Atobe rattles off, “I’ll have the number six, extra large, no onions. Listen, _Tezuka_ —”

 

Tezuka's eyebrows arch high. "Extra large? You're going to eat all of that yourself?" 

 

"Atobe-sempai binged all the time while you were gone," Ryouma languidly supplies. "Tezuka-buchou, split a number four with me." 

 

"All right." Tezuka subsequently leans back, flipping through the so-called 'food journal' with _intense_ amusement. 

 

When an attempt to reclaim said journal proves unsuccessful, Atobe resigns himself, and quickly searches for a way to play this out without losing _too_ much face. “Then gaze on my glorious numericals,” he says, leaning back with confidence. “It is far nobler to succeed with the efforts of your labors glistening on your brow.”

 

Tezuka gives him a sideways glance. "You're complaining about how many calories a granola bar has."

 

“ _Notating_.” Atobe’s smile starts to look a little strained around the edges. “With _private_ reflections. Do you want to talk about lineups or _not_?”

 

Tezuka's eyes roll skyward. "I do." He shuts the journal, handing it back over as a peace offering. He firmly ignores how Fuji keeps _looking at him_ around Eiji and Oishi and Ryouma. It's just going to be one of those meals, apparently. "You received Rikkai's lineup, I'm assuming."

 

“I _didn’t_.” Atobe says it as if the phrase has excessive meaning--which of course, considering that it’s Rikkai, it does. “They’re hiding something, obviously. Some secret weapon.”

 

That makes Tezuka's eyebrows raise. Sanada, if nothing else, would have insisted on a 'head-on' fight. Moron. "Strange, for them. To be safe, then, put yourself in singles two." 

 

The look Atobe gives him is somewhere between grudging and affronted. “Singles One is more than just ego, Tezuka,” he says, pained. “You _know_ that, that’s why you put yourself there so often. My team needs to know that if it goes to Singles One, we will definitely not lose. Oi, Ootori, am I not inspirational in Singles One?”

 

"You're _amazing_ , Atobe-san!"

 

Weirdo. "While I understand your reasoning behind putting yourself in singles one, that's not going to make a difference if you can't get there this time," Tezuka bluntly points out. "You have to weigh your opponents against that necessity. Do you have anyone else that can tip the score in your favor if they win both singles three and doubles two?" 

 

Atobe nibbles delicately on his bottom lip, thinking. “I _had_ plans,” he says, somewhat put-out. “One of their doubles teams would be disastrously weak against my best doubles team, and I was going to ensure that they played, but without the lineup being released, I could be throwing both matches away. Jirou is fantastic, but only against a certain kind of player--I hate to admit it, but I was really counting on being able to strategize after seeing the lineup.”

 

"Then let's write a worst possible scenario for you," Tezuka says, passing over Inui's data notebook to Atobe. "Let's assume Rikkai is attempting to finish you off quickly. That means they'll be putting their best in the first three matches. Start with the easy decision--put your best doubles team in doubles two, because you need that defense regardless."

 

Atobe nods slowly, and pulls out a piece of the notepaper, jotting down _Doubles Two--Ootori/Shishido_. “Then...should I put my second-best pair in Doubles One, do you think, or two strong singles players? That would at least throw them off a bit, and to be honest,” he adds, dropping his voice deliberately, “I only have one excellent doubles team.”

 

Tezuka gives him a look that reeks of _I'm very, very aware._ "The first and third matches are crucial, so you can't let singles be your weaker links. You might just have to hope Rikkai is putting their weaker doubles in Doubles One, because they don't think it's going to get there." He leans back, thinking. "Kabaji wouldn't be a bad idea against whoever they put up in Singles Three--probably Kirihara, or Sanada, is my guess." 

 

The ego, the immense condescending radiance, bleeds off slightly when Atobe is thinking up strategies, huddled together with Tezuka and idly eating sukiyaki with one hand. “Hmm, probably. But I _want_ my good pair to play their weaker one--I know the Marui-Kuwahara pair beat your doubles more soundly, but they’re terribly poor against speed. I honestly don’t think either of my doubles teams could do much against those tricksters. Oshitari thinks he can see through those illusions, but to be frank, I can’t see that being true.”

 

"If Rikkai is in a hurry," Tezuka says, "then they'll put their best in Doubles Two, so you're taking a gamble if you don't put up _someone_ that can match them. But then again, Yukimura might be bored after all this time as an alternate, and might want to play _you_ in Singles One…so he might give you a doubles match to get there." Tezuka shrugs a little helplessly, and plucks up his chopsticks to start nibbling on the bowl set between himself and Ryouma. "Their lineups have been strange at this tournament, that much is for sure." 

 

Atobe frowns, then hastily sketches in, _D2--O/G, D1--O/S, S3--K, S2--J, S1-O-s_. “I might switch the doubles,” he muses, then pulls out another page. “We should talk about Shitenhouji. I went to see their match, Tezuka--you’ve _definitely_ got something to be worried about.”

 

"I'm aware," Tezuka mutters, brow knitting as he tears out a sheet of paper for himself. "Especially since they've been destroying the most challenging opponents while we've basically been asleep on the court. Is the rumor true about Chitose sending his last opponent from Shishigaku to the hospital? That doesn't sound like him." 

 

“Well,” Atobe hedges, “I’ll allow that Shishigaku's captain went to the hospital after that match, but from what I saw, he put himself there. No, you don’t need to worry about Chitose--he’s the same kind of player you are, really. Your problem _is_ going to be singles there, however.”

 

Tezuka offers him a pointed stare. If nothing else, Seigaku has plenty of strong singles players, so for Atobe to say that… "All right. Start telling me about their captain, then. He's been putting himself in Singles Three and Two this whole time; courtesy of their loss against Rikkai last year, no doubt."

 

“Doubtless,” Atobe agrees, “and he has an agenda. He’s been deflecting attacks from everyone’s strong players shockingly easily--I’ve yet to see him drop a game, and I hear he hasn’t in the entire tournament. Tezuka, I’ve heard the only time their Singles One and Two have played in this tournament have been in the first rounds when they play all five--and that in those, neither he nor his rookie dropped a single game. Chitose is the least of your concerns, and that’s saying something.”

 

And now he has a headache without a doubt. _This_ was what he was afraid of. "…Then he'll probably be in Singles Three again, to start out strong." Tezuka hesitates, thinking. "Fuji, maybe. His tournament record in singles is impeccable." 

 

“If you can wake him up,” Atobe mutters. “Make him angry. Insult his brother, that seems to work wonders. At least you don’t have to worry about a power match; Shiraishi won’t injure whoever you put up against him, so don’t hold back on that account. The rookie, though…”

 

"I'll play him," Ryouma pipes up, and Tezuka ignores the eavesdropping little brat.

 

"Shiraishi will have him in Singles One, which we hopefully won't end up playing." _S3: Fuji._ Tentatively. 

 

"I'm never going to get to play at this rate," is Ryouma sulky mutter. 

 

Tezuka twitches, and turns his head to look at him. "If you want to play, I'll put you in doubles." 

 

"Don't wanna."

 

"Please tell me Shitenhouji's doubles pairs aren't as much to speak of," Tezuka tiredly begs of Atobe.

 

Atobe frowns, thinking. “Against some players, deadly. Against others, useless. One is fairly constant. If you have a doubles team that doesn’t laugh much or has a classy sense of humor, you’ll be fine, and that’s doubles two. They like to switch up doubles one--like the singles, they don’t always put their strongest players last, but it’s usually some combination of Chitose, their little genius, Oshitari Kenya, and that monk that they swear is only 14.”

 

Oshitari’s ears prick up, a few seats away. “I heard my name.”

 

“Not you, the other Oshitari.”

 

“Oh, are we talking about Kenya?” It’s hard to mistake the hope in his voice. Shishido punches him in the arm.

 

"Gross, Yuushi," Gakuto complains, punching Oshitari's other arm.

 

Ah, yes, that headache is growing. Tezuka briefly closes his eyes, trying to desperately think about his team members and whether or not any of them have senses of humor. God, he doesn't know. He doesn't care, either, so there's that. _D2: ???_ Momoshiro and Kaidou, maybe… or Inui and Kaidou, that seems plausible. "Why does no one release their lineup," he mutters, frustrated. "The Atobe Directorate should mandate that everyone does at tournaments held in their facilities next year." 

 

Atobe raises an eyebrow. “That means everyone will see it at the same time,” he points out, “and you wouldn’t be able to plan without changing your own lineup afterwards.” He grimaces, and admits, “I was looking forward to that little boost of luck, though, and dammit, what happened to Rikkai’s fabled confidence?” He leans over, and says to Ryouma, “You must have scared the piss out of Sanada to make them change that much.”

 

Ryouma scowls, stuffing a hunk of noodles into his mouth. "Doubt it. They probably just forgot to post it or something. Buchou, I don't wanna play doubles."

 

"You're probably going to play doubles," Tezuka dismissively mutters.

 

"Don't wanna." 

 

"Oishi. If I needed you to play doubles with Echizen, would you?"

 

Oishi looks slightly frightened by this concept, but Ryouma begrudgingly settles back. "If it's Oishi-sempai," he mumbles, grumpily, "I guess it'd be okay. He's good. It's not like when I had to play with Momo-sempai, he sucks."

 

"Hey!"

 

"Echizen…" Oishi now looks a little awestruck at the compliment, and Tezuka wishes he was dead.

 

Atobe stares at Tezuka as if he’s grown a second head. “Are you insane? You’re crippling your Golden Pair _and_ putting your best singles player besides yourself in _doubles_ at the same time? Why?”

 

"Because," Tezuka simply says, "I need a doubles pair that can adapt to absolutely any situation. Oishi can in doubles, and Echizen can in singles and doubles when playing with Oishi, which means their combination will work against any doubles pair Shitenhouji throws against us."

 

"Tezuka!" Oishi's sort of glittery-eyed now. Tezuka wishes he'd stop getting that way at every single compliment.

 

"I don't plan on letting us get to the point of playing Singles One, and unlike you," Tezuka archly says with a look to Atobe, "I have a number of younger players that have potential that needs training."

 

Atobe opens his mouth to argue, then laughs instead. “As you like, Ootori’s already trained, and Hiyoshi just suffers from personality flaws.”

 

 _Revolution_ , Hiyoshi decides darkly at the other end of the table, _is coming_.

 

“At any rate, does that mean you’ll throw away Singles One? I have to say, I think you and Ryouma are the only ones who could take on that rookie of theirs. Fuji, perhaps, but you’ll need him against Shiraishi.”

 

"That rookie," Tezuka slowly says, "was the one that ended a match with one shot, wasn't he?" 

 

“So I hear. A bouncy, brightly-tempered redhead,” Atobe adds with a roll of his eyes. “They seem to be _breeding_ them somewhere.”

 

Tezuka's gaze sharply turns to the rest of the table. "Kawamura. Kikumaru. Janken for the Singles One slot." 

 

"So unfair," Ryouma sulks.

 

Immediately, Eiji and Taka turn to each other, eyes intense and fists clenched. They chant, and throw.

 

“Tie,” Kaidou announces, then again, “Tie.”

 

Finally, Taka throws paper to Eiji’s rock, and the look of startled wonder on his face is complete. “Really, Tezuka? You actually want me to--I swear I’ll represent our team to the best of my ability! Though my skills may be meager, you can count on me to the very gates of hell!”

 

"All right," Tezuka replies, certain that's captain-y enough."Kikumaru, you'll be in Singles Two, then." He feels good about that choice, honestly. 

 

Fuji is now petting Taka's arm. "I'm so proud of you, Taka-san!"

 

"Well, that settles most of it, then," Tezuka mutters, glancing down at his list. _S3: Fuji, D2:…Momoshiro/Kaidou_ (for sure, now, it's a statement of sorts), _S2: Kikumaru, D1, Oishi/Echizen, S1: Kawamura._ Really, what else could he do other than duplicate himself and Echizen and play every slot? Against a team like Shitenhouji, every combination feels just about as worthless as the next. 

 

Atobe steals a look at the list, then smiles. “Rest up for me, Tezuka,” he says, then shoots a look at Ryouma. “Or is it that you’ll send Ryouma against me? After all, we have no idea how that match would go. Well, _I_ have an idea.”

 

"You'd lose," Ryouma immediately replies, leaning around behind Tezuka to look at Atobe through a proper insight pose. "I can see all your weaknesses, Atobe-sempai."

 

Tezuka wonders why this has to happen when he's between the two of them. "Put yourself in doubles, Atobe," he dryly shoots back, "and then maybe you could play against both of us at once." 

 

Atobe manages to hold his tongue, which he thinks is quite a remarkable feat when he’s about two words away from dragging Ryouma off to the bathroom for a blowjob. “As if you’d ever play doubles,” he scoffs instead, leaning back after a quick wink to the boy. “You’re not one to practice what you preach, _Captain_.”

 

"I apologize," Tezuka says, completely straight-faced. "I forgot that you play doubles all the time, Atobe. Your ego is more than enough as a partner; Echizen and I could never compare against such a combination." 

 

"…Is Tezuka-buchou actually _joking?_ " Momoshiro whispers to Ryouma, who just shrugs, more interested in making a face at Atobe. "But I don't think I've ever even heard him laugh!" 

 

Ryouma sighs. "All of you are dumb." 

 

“If you’re serious,” Atobe says, ignoring Ryouma’s supposed ‘gaydar,’ “my glorious self will be glad to face you, even in doubles, any time of your choosing.” _Shit, do I have a good doubles….dammit._ “Ootori, you’d prove your worth alongside me quite nicely.” 

 

Down the table, Shishido frowns, and gestures at Atobe with his chopsticks, muttering to Jirou and Gakuto under his breath, “He’s been trying to muscle in on Choutarou all night. Fucking lame and _annoying_.”

 

Ootori hesitates, worry clearly reflecting across his face. "I'd…I'd be honored, Atobe-san, but I'm not really sure I feel comfortable playing doubles with anyone other than Shishido-san."

 

"Weak," Gakuto calls out.

 

"Sounds like that's quite a problem," Tezuka idly notes. "Forfeiting before the match even occurs might be a good idea, Atobe."

 

Affronted, Atobe looks down his table, then sighs. “Oshitari, it’s your lucky day. You’re playing doubles with me in a special private match.” Ugh, it could be _worse_ , and Oshitari isn’t about to say no.

 

"I'd play doubles with you, Tezuka," Fuji calls over.

 

"I already have a partner, Fuji." Someone save him. 

 

“Name your time,” Atobe says, turning back to Tezuka before Oshitari can be so, so weird about it. “I’m assuming the place will be at one of my courts--or we could do it this evening, if you aren’t afraid.”

 

"Excuse me," Oishi interrupts, less starry-eyed now, much more firm, "but the chance of injury is a little much to risk the night before the semi-finals, don't you think?"

 

"But I wanna play," Ryouma grouses, tugging on the back of Tezuka's jersey.

 

"…You'll be playing in the tournament tomorrow," Tezuka somehow manages. How do people with little brothers function normally when they're being _cute_. 

 

“Tell you what,” Atobe says, thinking fast. “We can make a deal. When we meet in the finals, Oshitari and I will meet you in Doubles One. No tricks, no changing lineups. None of us are the best doubles players—”

 

“Atobe!”

 

“Shut up, Oshitari, you know it’s true. Anyway, that means we aren’t crippling our teams...and we’d see how it is when we’re really going for it as hard as possible.” He raises an eyebrow. “Well?”

 

Tezuka considers it for all of a moment before he nods. It isn't as if it's doing any harm to the team, and if anything, his own is at an advantage courtesy of it. "Done. When we see one another in the finals, Echizen and I will meet you in Doubles One."

 

"This all seems oddly romantic," Fuji sighs out.

 

"Weird," Gakuto mutters.

 

The door to the restaurant slams open, and before the proprietor can even ask _how many_ for a party that large, a blur of red-yellow-black hurtles through the air to land on the table. “It is you!” the wild thing crows, pointing directly at Ryouma, not paying attention to the bowls and plates knocked over. “I’d know that expression on your face anywhere--you’re Koshimae! I saw you from the stands and tried to go to see you, but—”

 

A bandaged hand comes down on the back of the boy’s neck, lifting him off the table by the collar. “Kin-chan!” Shiraishi Kuranosuke chides, holding him far enough away that he isn’t hit by flailing limbs. “You can’t walk through people’s food. You made a mess. Do you want to pay for it?”

 

“Lemme go! Ahh, Shiraishi, let go, I want to eat sukiyaki and talk to Koshimae!”

 

“It must be love at first sight,” Koharu sighs, falling dramatically back against Yuuji.

 

"…Friend of yours, Echizen?" Tezuka somehow manages, sitting back from the table a bit and pushing up his glasses.

 

"I need my data book back," Inui insists, and Tezuka just hands it over, not even _wanting_ to know. 

 

Ryouma merely stares. "…Who are you?" he finally asks, squinting. 

 

"Every single team," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath, mentally sounding off for every single hyperactive redhead out there.

 

“I’m Kintarou Tooyama! We’re going to have a match tomorrow, yeah!” Kintarou’s eyes gleam, and he _nearly_ manages to break away from Shiraishi’s hold. Nearly. “I heard you’re the strongest guy on Seigaku, and I want to play you!”

 

“I told you, you _have_ to wait for the semifinals.” Shiraishi gives a bow, smiling at the captains. “I’m really very sorry for the interruption, he got away from me when I was getting out of the van. He’s been talking about your Echizen all week, ever since Kenya said—”

 

“Sit _down_ ,” Shishido mutters, grabbing Oshitari by the shoulder when he rises at the sight of his cousin entering the room, shoving him back into his seat.

 

Tezuka merely inclines his head. "It's fine. I hope we end up having a good match tomorrow." 

 

"Ah! Yuushi!" Kenya greets with a grin, waving as he walks in. "I thought you'd be scared shitless about tomorrow, but here you are, eating dinner with the enemy--"

 

"Fuji, you're listing to one side," Oishi hisses, elbowing his friend.

 

Fuji promptly blinks, straightens up, and wipes his mouth where he was also, apparently, drooling a little. _Shiraishi,_ damn.

 

Ryouma stares back at Kintarou, bored. "You don't even know my name, I'm not playing you." 

 

“Sure I do!” Kintarou argues. “The super-strong guy who’s got steel bones and eyes that shoot lasers! He’s from Australia and can defeat _anyone_ with his tennis! Koshimae!”

 

“Kenya,” Oshitari says, somewhat alarmed, “I fear you’ve somewhat mistranslated my explanation about Echizen over here.”

 

“He’s got the kanji wrong,” Koharu calls, then loses his voice when he sees Atobe and Tezuka together. “Ah...Yuu-chan, hold me back, look how delicious those Captains are, all cuddled up! Definitely on _our team_!”

 

“Are you insulting our Captain?” Kaidou demands, nearly knocking his chair over when he stands. “I’ll kill you!”

 

Atobe leans over, muttering quietly to Tezuka, “I have headache medicine smuggled in from overseas.”

 

"Ooh, there's another one," Yuuji snidely jabs towards Kaidou, then firmly tightens his arm around Koharu's waist. "Don't you even _think_ about snuggling up between those two dreamboats, though, you damned harlot!" 

 

"What the hell," Momoshiro manages.

 

Ryouma turns back to eating his meal. "I'm not gonna play you." 

 

"Just kill me instead," Tezuka mutters back, hoping it is, at least, a quick death.

 

“That,” Atobe says, trying to figure out if there’s an angle he can sit at with someone between himself and the team of lunatics, “is their Doubles Two team. Took four games off of Sanada-Yanagi pair last year. Change your lineup.”

 

Kintarou’s face falls so drastically he actually sags, and Shiraishi’s arm muscles flex as he actually holds the (surprisingly heavy) boy by the back of his collar. “B-b-but you have to play me!” he insists. “I ran here from Osaka to find you! Shiraishi, you _monster_ , you said he’d play me in Singles One!”

 

“Kin-chan, you’re going to get us kicked out of another restaurant,” Shiraishi says with a sigh. 

 

“I don’t want to eat in the alley again, Kin-chan,” Koharu whines. “All the beautiful men are in _here_!”

 

"How," Tezuka manages in a hushed voice, scooting away from the table in an attempt put _some_ kind of distance between himself and Shitenhouji in general, "did they take _four games._ " 

 

Yuuji scowls, yanking Koharu further away. "We're gonna eat in the alley no matter what if you keep looking at them like that!" 

 

Kenya, unfazed, plops himself right down next to his cousin. "So, are you guys sharing tactics or something? Don't be shy, let's all share!"

 

"As if they'll share with us, Oshitari-sempai," Zaizen mutters, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he still lingers back at the door. "We're playing some of them tomorrow."

 

Ryouma doesn't look up from his bowl. "Even if I was in Singles One, I wouldn't play you because it's not gonna get to that point." 

 

Shots fired. Tezuka isn't sure if he should give Ryouma a pat on the back for that, or to apologize for him. He settles for doing nothing; that's usually  neutral enough.

 

Oshitari uses his chopsticks to shove a chunk of sukiyaki noodle in Kenya’s mouth. “I’m sure you’re more than welcome, Kenya. But we aren’t all privy to the Captain’s meeting. How was your train ride? Were you comfortable?”

 

Next to him, Shishido isn’t shy about making gagging noises.

 

Unfortunately, that attracts the attention of Koharu, who whispers something into Yuuji’s ear while pointing at Shishido, at which point both of them burst into raucous laughter. Shishido hunkers down over his sukiyaki, turning slowly, painfully red.

 

“Then play me right now!” Kintarou insists, making another unsuccessful break for freedom from Shiraishi. “Koshimae, you’re supposed to be the strongest one, and I _need_ a good game! I already beat everyone in Osaka, let me see what makes Kyoto so great!”

 

“Tokyo, Kin-chan, we’re in Tokyo.”

 

“Yeah!”

 

“Excuse me,” Shiraishi adds to Fuji, hand still gripping Kintarou’s collar, “but are you all right? You look a little overheated and dizzy.”

 

"Huh? Ah," Fuji slowly says, coming back to his senses and staring up, _up_ at Shiraishi, so tall and broad and oh, god, his _hands_ , Fuji knows he's left-handed, he can _sense it_ even if he hadn't already known and he _does_ like a left-handed man--"Perhaps some fresh air…would be good…"

 

"Not gonna play you," Ryouma replies, bored. "Oishi-sempai says I can't play any private matches because of the semifinals tomorrow."

 

"It's the smart thing to do," Oishi firmly insists. "Don't act as if it's a crime, Echizen."

 

"Eh. It is when I can't play Atobe-sempai."

 

"Oshitari, quit being so gross," Gakuto mutters grumpily. 

 

"Which Oshitari?" Kenya immediately asks, slurping down another noodle. 

 

Gakuto blinks. "Shit. Uh, the other one. He's always Oshitari."

 

"I'm always Oshitari, too!" Kenya insists, smacking a hand against his chest. "Oshitari Kenya!" 

 

Gakuto doesn't know what the fuck he's gotten himself into, and settles for watching Ootori attempt to sort of weakly pat Shishido's shoulder and reassure him that Shitenhouji's weird doubles team isn't pointing him out as _super_ homo.

 

Fuji’s complexion really is startling, and Taka immediately puts the back of his hand against Fuji’s forehead. “You _are_ a little warm,” he frets, pouring some of his water onto a napkin and dabbing at Fuji’s forehead. “Can I get you something? Do you need me to call you a taxi?”

 

“So many _manly men_ ,” Koharu sighs. “Yuuji, we’re on the wrong team. Then again, both Seigaku and Hyoutei seem like they’re just _full_ of our team, don’t they?”

 

"Both of 'em," Yuuji agrees. "Seems like all the Best Four are like that this year, huh? Your _favorite's_ on Rikkai," he jealously mutters. 

 

"Just gonna…fresh air," Fuji breathes, listing against Taka's shoulder for a moment before he slowly climbs to his feet, swaying, and slithers out of the restaurant. 

 

Fantastic. Fuji is now some kind of ill--more so than usual--which makes Tezuka rethink, yet again, his lineup. "How rude is it to leave _right now_ ," he mutters to Atobe. 

 

Atobe snorts. “You want to leave your team alone with their tender mercies?” he demands. “They get up to this much trouble _with_ me watching them.”

 

“Yuu-chan is my favorite!” Koharu swears, leaping into the other boy’s arms. “Even Sanada-kun could never compare!”

 

“Oishi,” Eiji whispers, “if you tell me we look like that to other people, I’m going to kill myself.”

 

"Koharu, I knew you'd never betray me!"

 

"We don't," Oishi frantically whispers back. "We absolutely don't. We don't look anything like that." 

 

Tezuka's left eye starts twitching. 

 

Ryouma finishes off his bowl and slowly slides away from the table. " _I'm_ going," he announces. "If Oishi-sempai won't let me play tonight, then I'm just gonna go practice instead." 

 

“I’m coming too!” Kintarou manages to plant a foot on the wall, and twists out of Shiraishi’s hold, evading the next grab, and pelts out of the restaurant. 

 

Shiraishi sighs. “Kenya, you’re the only one who’s fast enough to catch him now. That’s your job.” 

 

“Gross,” Shishido says in response to the tragic look on Oshitari’s face, and punches him again. 

 

“Ooh, so _physical_!” Koharu croons. “Yuu-chan, hit me like that! Why didn’t _we_ go to the S &M school, or the one with the DoS Captain?”

 

"Koharu," Yuuji patiently sighs, "you _know_ you're way too fragile for Rikkai's captain to order you around like that all the time. You need a more…delicate touch, one that only I know about--"

 

"Save it for the bedroom, you two," Kenya sighs, not exactly energetic about chasing _Kintarou_ down.

 

Ryouma stops short of the restaurant's door, side-stepping so that Kintarou doesn't directly collide with him. It smells like cigarettes out there, anyway, which means Fuji is still lingering around and being weird. He doesn't wanna deal with that, not yet, not when there's _information_ floating around. "You guys played Rikkai in the semifinals last year, right?" he poses, turning around and raising his eyebrows at Shiraishi. "Did you play their captain, Shitenhouji-buchou?" 

 

Shiraishi grimaces. He steps lightly to the side, making sure Kenya will lose his voice in the press of people--and in the way Koharu is attempting to snatch off Kaidou’s bandana. “Unfortunately, no,” he admits. “I was in Singles One. Learned my lesson, too. It’s all very well to be the one who everyone can count on if things go wrong, but it’s a lot better to make sure they never go wrong in the first place.” He smiles. “Heard the stories? Nervous to face him? I hear you’re doing Singles one now, congratulations. That’s a big job for a first year.”

 

Ryouma shrugs, adjusting his hat. "Not nervous. Just wanted to know." Damn, but why doesn't _anyone_ know about Yukimura? Maybe he really is a demon like Fuji said, and needs to be summoned. "You keep putting _your_ first year in Singles One, so it doesn't seem like that uncommon of a thing." 

 

“My first year is in Singles One,” Shiraishi explains, “because he’s a wild card. He won’t lose, but I also think it’s worthwhile to keep everything going according to plan. Try asking someone from Rokakku or Fudomine. They should know all about the Child of God.”

 

Ryouma scowls. "Except he didn't play." 

 

"It's true," Tezuka tiredly points out. "Yukimura has been an alternate in every match thus far. They also failed to release their lineup for the semifinals this time." 

 

Shiraishi’s eyebrows climb. “Maybe he’s still convalescent, then. I heard he was in the hospital. I’ll send him another get-well token.”

 

“Does that mean Sanada-kun is going to be captain of Rikkai now?” Koharu asks, eyes shining. “When he bends over, you can see he’s wearing a fundoshi under his uniform!”

 

"Oi! Where the hell are you looking, Koharu?!" Yuuji demands.

 

"Gross," Ryouma mutters, yanking his hat down further as he turns for the door again. "Well, whatever. If he's not there, he's not there. I don't wanna play someone who's not at his best." 

 

“Don’t worry,” Shiraishi calls after him. “I’d be afraid to play Kin-chan, too.”

 

Ryouma twitches, stopping dead. "I'm not afraid to play _anyone_." 

 

Tezuka wonders if it's time to leave _now_.

 

“My apologies,” Shiraishi says, with a little bow that does nothing to hide his smile. “You should be, though. He defeated everyone in Osaka. Even the high schoolers and adults.”

 

“Tezuka,” Atobe says, low and urgent, “he’s going to be playing a match in five minutes if you don’t stop him, and you have a match _tomorrow_.”

 

Ryouma thinks one more time about Kintarou before saying: "All right. Fine, let's g--"

 

"No," Tezuka hurriedly cuts in, standing up quickly. "I'm not allowing it, Echizen."

 

"Why won't _anyone_ let me play a match," Ryouma crossly mutters. "I wanna play."

 

"No."

 

"But--"

 

"Your _captain_ said no, Echizen," Oishi firmly adds. 

 

Ryouma looks like he wants to tear out someone's throat. "But I _want_ to." 

 

"No one at these schools is any fun," Kenya sighs out, leaning back in his seat. "Yuushi, why'd you even come to Tokyo if everyone's gonna be like this?" 

 

“Sometimes, I wonder,” Oshitari says with a sigh. “Kenya, you look tired. Are you sure you ate enough?”

 

“We _all_ wonder about you, Oshitari,” Shishido grumbles.

 

“Kenya,” Shiraishi says sharply, eyes still on Ryouma, “are you chasing down our lunatic prodigy, or are you going to let him be hit by a succession of heavily-dented cars? _Now_.”

 

"Lame, Yuushi," Gakuto mutters.

 

Kenya sighs heavily, clapping his cousin once on the shoulder before he starts out of the restaurant at a brisk jog.

 

"I wanna play," Ryouma repeats, his eyes sliding from Tezuka to Atobe. "Atobe-sempai."

 

"He's not your captain!" Oishi somewhat incredulously cuts in. "Don't ask for permission from him!"

 

"But he'll say yes, I bet. Atobe-sempai, please?"

 

"Keigo," Tezuka hisses underneath his breath, low enough for only Atobe to hear.

 

Atobe’s lip quivers. _But_ , he wants to protest, _he’s calling me Atobe-sempai! And look at those eyes!_

 

He clears his throat, blinking rapidly, and looks down. “Do as your Captain says, Ryou--er, Echizen.” The look he shoots Tezuka says very clearly that he has some very serious rewards coming up in the very near future.

 

Ryouma scowls, just shy of stomping his foot. "Fine. Forget it, then, I'm gonna just _go_." 

 

It's probably for the best. Tezuka sags back into his seat when Ryouma finally does stalk out. "I apologize for his rudeness, Shiraishi. He's been frustrated since the start of this tournament, I think." 

 

Shiraishi gives him a weary smile. “It’s fine, it’s fine. Honestly, Kintarou’s been the same way. He only got to play in the first couple matches, when we played all five rounds. Was it the same for your rookie?”

 

"More or less." Ryouma has been another headache and a half, though, courtesy of his quest to find first-hand accounts regarding Yukimura, and failing. Tezuka has wondered a dozen times over now if he should just tell him that he's already had one, but…ugh. He sighs, glancing over to Kaidou and Momoshiro, both hissing and spitting and turning bright red at every idle comment that Shitenhouji's 'famed' comedy doubles pair makes. He leans slightly sideways, closer to Atobe. "How strongly do you feel about the need for a change in my doubles pairs?" 

 

Atobe shrugs. “They work by getting their opponents riled up. Do you think your d2 will really be able to handle that kind of, er, stimulation?”

 

“Bandana-kun, let me be your bride--or groom, I bet that’s what you want, isn’t it?”

 

“I’m going to rip your face off!!!”

 

A muscle in Tezuka's jaw twitches. "But I don't _want_ to switch things around."

 

"Koharu!" Yuuji snarls, grabbing for his boyfriend. "You're going to be _my_ bride, don't go sidling up to him like that! At least _share!_ "

 

Koharu’s eyes are sly behind his glasses, darting between Momoshiro and Kaidou. “We could share _both_ of them. Mm, which end do you want, Yuu-chan?”

 

Kaidou throws a despairing look towards the head of the table and his captain, as if begging, _Am I actually allowed to hit him if no one holds me back?_

 

“You’re going to have to do something about the Viper,” Atobe muses. “He’s the one that can’t be controlled. Momotaro over there just feeds on it, you know that.”

 

This means that he needs to act like a captain. 

 

Tezuka heaves a long, weary sigh. Right. Climbing to his feet, he spares Kaidou a nod. "Kaidou. Step outside with me for a moment, I'd like to speak with you." If he fixes this _now_ , maybe this will all be fine. Somehow. 

 

Kaidou holds his tongue (with difficulty) until they get out of the restaurant. As soon as the door shuts, he immediately says, “Captain, it’s not my _fault_ , they wouldn’t stop saying those things, and it’s not like I am what they’re saying I am—”

 

"I don't care," Tezuka bluntly says, and tries not to inhale cigarette…and other smoke. 

 

"Oh, Tezuka, Kaidou, hi," Fuji breezily greets, putting out his cigarette on the wall. 

 

Tezuka hates his life. "Fuji. Chitose."

 

There's an awkward pause, and Fuji finally gets it. "Ohh. Okay. Come on, Chitose, let's talk over _here_ instead." 

 

"…As I was saying," Tezuka dryly continues, trying not to heave too heavily a sigh as he looks back at Kaidou, "I honestly don't care _what_ they're spewing. Reacting to them like that gives them the upper hand, and it will in your match against them tomorrow, too. Tell me now: can I count on you to win or not?"

 

Kaidou swallows hard, taking a deep breath of cool summer evening air. “Of course, Captain,” he says, but doesn’t sound terribly convinced. “It’s just…the things they’re _saying_. Come on, I’d never lose to guys like that!”

 

"They're saying it," Tezuka _patiently_ replies, "because they're getting a reaction. Didn't they say the same things to Atobe and I when they first walked in?"

 

Kaidou, if possible, turns an even deeper shade of red. “That’s _different_ ,” he mutters. “You and Atobe are...different.” From the look on his face, it’s painfully clear he doesn’t wish to further elaborate.

 

"Because we don't _care_." That's not entirely true. Tezuka would care, very much, if his sex life was talked about in great, grand details, or if Atobe started trying to make out with him in public (the difference is that he'd care about that sort of thing if Atobe were male or female, so there's that). He's also fairly certain that Atobe would care very, very much if someone started harassing him because he was dating another man, but that's neither here nor there. But about these idiots--no, they don't care about them. "Kaidou, ignore them. If they see that they can get a reaction out of you, they're going to use it in the match, and I need for you to be able to get over it and actually play. And quite frankly," Tezuka says, lowering his voice, "if they _did_ actually say something rude to you that was deserving of a punch to the face, I would argue your case at any disciplinary committee."

 

“They said they were going to--that they wanted to d-do things to me, Captain!” Kaidou’s voice is harsh, his face drawn into an intense, humiliated scowl. “How can they say those things? And in _public_? They need to learn some respect!”

 

"While I agree with you," Tezuka tiredly begins, "it's literally just a matter of being able to tune it all out." And now for the final bit of motivation--"Do you want to play singles in the finals, Kaidou?"

 

Kaidou’s head snaps up. There’s a hunger for it--to _prove_ himself, to show that he’s _earned_ the spot of being Captain next year instead of just ‘not as useless as Momo,’ and he _wants_ it. “Yes, Captain! You can count on me!” God, he hopes he can get it together.

 

"Then win this doubles match, and you'll have a slot. You _have_ to be the one that keeps it together, because you know Momoshiro is just going to feed off of your reactions." _Don't let your guard down_ and all of that seems a little trite in this circumstance, and so Tezuka just sighs, giving Kaidou's shoulder a firm clap. "Don't let them bait you. You're better than that."

 

Kaidou takes a deep breath, then nods. He can do this. He’s not an idiot like Momoshiro, after all. He swallows hard, then asks, “Captain? Were you...nervous, before becoming Captain? N-not that I think you’re definitely going to give it to me or anything! I was just asking.”

 

"I'm _usually_ nervous in some regard," Tezuka deadpans. Well, it's not a lie. Most people just never believe it. "But honestly? I didn't even want it. I was hoping it would be given to Fuji, or even Inui." 

 

“But—” 

 

Kaidou looks horrified at the prospect. “Neither of them would ever be half--no, a _tenth_ of the captain you are!”

 

Tezuka's eyebrows arch. "I'm glad you think that," he honestly says, "but most of the time, Kaidou, I'm not entirely sure if what I'm doing is correct or not. So yes, I was nervous. It's fine if you are, too, because I can't imagine leaving Seigaku to anyone else."

 

Kaidou firms his jaw, and sets his shoulders. “Yes, Captain! You can depend on me. Those stupid perverts won’t get the better of Kaidou Kaoru, no matter what they say or do. We’ll go to the championship!”

 

"Good. Now go back inside and prove it." Hopefully, this has served as inspirational. Tezuka isn't kidding when he says he's rarely sure if what he's doing is any good or not. 

 

~

 

Chitose doesn’t expect someone to come out of the restaurant right away. He can see through the window that there aren’t too many people inside that aren’t in the rival teams, and his own has only just gone in. With that in mind, there are few good places to take the edge off...but this will do, in a pinch, and playing Shishigaku counts as a pinch.

 

Of course, he’s only _just_ lit up when the door opens. Of course. He puts it out hurriedly on the restaurant wall, stepping to the side to cover up the stain. If it’s someone who doesn’t know the smell, this probably won’t be an issue.

 

In theory, fresh air is good, but then there's the scent of something that distinctly _isn't_ wet, rainy summer Tokyo.

 

Fuji just smiles when he sees who it is, though, and he sidesteps away from the door, pulling out a cigarette from his own back pocket. "Lucky. I didn't think there would be anyone out here that would give me a light." Wow, but Chitose is even taller when he's up _close_.

 

A lot of people would relax, seeing Fuji out here. Those people would be thinking directly along the lines of _he’s not likely to turn me in_. Something about Fuji, however, makes Chitose distinctly unable to relax. 

 

He pulls out a lighter, however, and offers the light. “Being cramped up in there is no fun,” he says with a little smile. “Sometimes you need a little space. Right, Fuji Shuusuke?”

 

Fuji leans in, lighting his cigarette and then rocking back onto his heels on a long, drawn out exhale. "Mnn, mostly, I got a little flustered looking at your captain. Can't say that in front of a crowded room, though, so here I am." His own lips curl into a faint smile. "You must have a better excuse, though."

 

Chitose shrugs. His eyes are sharp now, watching every move; Shiraishi doesn’t need any creepers after him, and Fuji Shuusuke is just about the number one entry on the Do Not Allow list, as far as Chitose’s concerned. When he speaks, however, his voice is mellow. “Recovering from our last game. Plus...it didn’t really feel right to be in there with the team after I quit.”

 

Ooh. There's _that_ rumor confirmed. Fuji's eyebrows arch, but he doesn't respond right away. "What a shame. I think Tezuka was looking forward to playing you in the semifinals. He usually has a lot of nice things to say about you." Which is weird, because Tezuka rarely says anything about anyone, let alone anything nice. Gross.

 

“I’m sure I’ll meet up with him in a match someday. Men like us...our paths are destined to cross.” To hell with it, he’s not playing and Fuji Shuusuke won’t turn him in. Chitose lights up the remainder of the joint behind his back, inhaling deeply, then letting it go.

 

Getting a second-hand high is pretty good, Fuji thinks. His eyes lid, and he flicks ash off of the end of his cigarette. "Will you at least be there to watch? It looks like I'll be playing Shiraishi, which I think is going to be fun." He glances sideways, catching Chitose's gaze. "Or did you get banned from the stadium after sending that player from Shishigaku to the hospital? I hear that was _quite_ a match." 

 

Chitose blows out a long trail of smoke, and leans back against the wall. “Not my fault, referee says. No one told him he had to let the ball hit him. Didn’t you hear? Tennis is supposed to be a game for fast people.” A little smile plays around the edges of his lips. “I’ll be watching Kura. Don’t think for a second I won’t.”

 

 _What did that asshat do to provoke that_ is on the tip of Fuji's tongue, but ah, he's not so good at listening to other people's problems. He'd like to be, in theory, but it never really works out. "…So if you're going through the trouble of staying around and watching," he slowly presses, "then why quit?" His next inhale is long and deep, and he _definitely_ gets two kinds of smoke at once. That's nice. 

 

Chitose raises his eyebrows. “You want a hit?” he asks, holding it out. “You’re kind of...leaning.”

 

"I'm _usually_ leaning," Fuji cheerfully admits, but waves the joint away and curls up around his cigarette again. "Thank you, but I'm weird when I'm high, you don't want that."

 

“Yeah,” Chitose deadpans, “god forbid.” He waits a few long moments before taking another hit, starting to cruise on the good feelings. “I’m just not sure that _playing_ tennis is what I should be doing right now, you know? Not sure I like the man I am when I do it, not right now.”

 

"How do you even figure that out?" Fuji wonders out loud, his head tilting slightly to the side. "Is it when it starts being a chore? Or when it starts upsetting other people? If that was the case, I should have stopped a long time ago." 

 

“Nah, got nothing to do with other people. Tennis—that’s a big mistake people make,” Chitose says, waving his hand to make a point. “They get into this mindset of thinking it’s the end, but it’s just the way you frame your journey. You gotta pay attention to the way your feet touch the road. If it starts being about other people and not about what you feel, you’ve got to let it go, just to see if you can start feeling you again.” He blinks a few times. “God, I’m really high.”

 

"I wish I could get high that easily," Fuji sighs, breathing in nicotine more than anything else and, well, that takes away the rush that seeing Shiraishi brought about, more or less. "Tennis has always been about other people for me, though, so I guess I messed up from the beginning." He shrugs a little. "Oh well. So long as I win, it's okay. You used to be pretty like that, too; I remember your old matches."

 

“Why do you play?” Chitose turns, facing Fuji face-on now for the first time, looking into the eyes that freak him out a little. There’s something not-quite-right going on there, he’s sure of it, even if no one else seems to notice. “What old matches?”

 

"The ones when you were at Shishigaku last year. See, Sanada mentioned your name at the Kantou, and that made Inui _have_ to look up your old tapes…" Fuji takes a long drag from his cigarette, flicking off the ash afterwards. "Mm, but, I mostly think I play to find that one little thrill again, you know? Our rookie does that for me, sometimes. Maybe Shiraishi will, too."

 

Chitose has to laugh at that. He has to laugh a little bit at everything, right now. “You’re not going to like playing him as much as you think you are.”

 

"Why do you say that? He's not serve and volley, so automatically I find him more appealing. The shoulders also help." And those _hands_.

 

“He’s no fun to play.” Chitose shrugs. “You’ll see. I don’t want to spoil the surprise for you.” _Don’t want you to give a chance to read up on him and find a way to beat him,_ more accurately.

 

"I bet he's fun in his own way," Fuji sighs, eyes glazing as his mind starts wandering. "Are you two dating? Is that why you're so protective?" 

 

“That would make more sense, wouldn’t it?” Chitose agrees. “Nah. There’s just...something about him I really love. Dunno if he’s the dating kind, though. I’m certainly not.” It would be _not anymore_ , but there had never been dates in the first place, so maybe more like _not ever._

 

"That sounds like Tezuka and I," Fuji fondly reflects. "He's just so…untouchable. But I'm really not a good person, and I definitely wouldn't be good for him…it's better if I stay away. If he ever wants me, he'll tell me, I'm sure of that." 

 

Chitose nods a little. “Yeah...I see what you’re saying. There’s elements of that, sure. But I think I’m a lot less selfless than you seem to be implying. Just doesn’t feel right, me and him. From my point of view, and I’m pretty sure from his, too. Hell, for all I know, he likes girls.” It _could_ be true. He’s never exactly asked.

 

Fuji reaches over to pat his arm sympathetically. "It's hard when they like girls and you don't look like a girl," he says knowingly. "Fortunately, I do. I could find out for you, if you want." 

 

Chitose smiles, and puts a hand over Fuji’s. “Thanks,” he says, “and please don’t take this the wrong way, but I’d do pretty much anything to stop him from ending up with you.”

 

"That's probably smart," Fuji breezily agrees, "because I'm trash, and I'd _love_ to eat him alive." 

 

“Do you have an accurate count of how many guys have told you there’s something wrong with you?” It’s a fairly venom-less question, more curious than anything.

 

"I lost count when I was…11. Ish. It's gotten pretty high in the past few years, so, you know," Fuji lightly answers, unfazed. "Surprisingly, though, most people take awhile. You're fast, though!"

 

Shockingly, most people seem to think it’s scarier to play Tezuka than this wack-job. Chitose will never understand what most people fear. He shakes his head a little, and stabs out the end of his joint, neatly pocketing it to avoid leaving a trace behind. “I’m not being facetious when I say I’ll be watching Kura’s match. Most of us are pretty protective of him. Me I guess most of all.” Not that he’d have to be if Shiraishi would just _listen_ to him when he tells him Fuji Shuusuke is dangerous.

 

"I'd hope so! He seems a little…" Fuji trails off, thinking, and then just smiles, shrugging uncaringly. "Whatever. I can't _wait_ to see you there."

 

The door swings open, and whoops, that's time to put out his cigarette. Athletes don't smoke, or so their stern (gorgeous, strong, _beautiful_ …) captain is pretty set on believing. 

 

Tezuka believes a lot of things, though, and that's not Fuji's fault, either.

 


	19. Sanada & Yukimura, Rikkai

Not telling anyone is driving Yukimura insane.

 

The past few days have been hell--a barrage of hell, considering all of his time spent at home has been fielding phone calls, diving for the line and nearly ripping the cord out of the wall a few times in the process. It's been a whole lot of picking up prescriptions, and then hiding them. It's been lying to doctors at the next, follow-up appointment, and saying that his parents were busy, and that he's fine, he's used to this by now, he doesn't need them there, here's a note signed by them saying the same thing.

 

He _can't_ tell even his parents what his test results say yet, not when he's so sure they'll pull him from the tournament. 

 

That won't do. Not when he's so close. It's the night before the semifinals, and while Yukimura isn't worried, Kirihara's lineup is…questionable. It's more questionable with the fact that he's in Singles Three, not Singles One, and while he doesn't mind and _does_ want to play… 

 

As if to prove his worries, he rolls off of his bed to escape to the bathroom (not for the first time today) and heaves up the contents of his stomach for a minute and a half. 

 

No, this won't do. Blaming the heat in the middle of the day is one thing, but this…Yukimura groans, shutting his eyes and flopping his head down onto the toilet seat as he reaches up to flush. This _sucks_. Just a few more days. He can skip taking these particular pills until _after_ Nationals--it won't make a difference, anyway. 

 

"Nii-chan, Gen-chan is here!"

 

Simultaneously, the thoughts of _my hero_ and _shit, shit, shit_ run through Yukimura's mind. "Send him up in five seconds, Kaede!" he calls down, wobbling to his feet to brush his teeth because gross, gross, _gross_. 

 

Downstairs, Kaede looks gravely up at her brother's childhood friend. "Nii-chan has been very sneaky lately," she says, completely serious. "I think he's planning something. Approach with caution." 

 

Sanada sighs, and rubs his temples slightly. No stress, that’s just begging to bring one of his headaches back, and they’ve been in rare form since Yukimura’s been out of the hospital. It’s a relief that he’s out, of course, but at least when he was in the hospital Sanada wasn’t constantly worried that he’d _do something_ to hurt himself.

 

“I’ll be careful,” he promises, just as serious as Kaede. He hopes it’s only a result of Yukimura furiously planning for their retreat after Nationals, and swells a little bit with pride. At some point, Yukimura will ask for his parents’ permission, only to find that Sanada has already done so, and received it in spades. 

 

He makes his way upstairs, padding on the carpeted steps (how Western, like most of the house) in socked feet before politely knocking at the door. Stupid, that after ten years his pulse can still jump a beat knowing _I’m about to see him._

 

"Don't knock, that's so lame," Yukimura teases as he opens the door, having pieced himself together again with a smile. Kaede told Sanada something weird, he can _tell_ , but it's better not to bring it up or that's just going to make it more difficult to keep secrets (secrets that he doesn't really want to keep, anyway). "Have you _seen_ Akaya's lineup for tomorrow?" he tosses over his shoulder as he walks further into the room. "I wonder if he'll ever realize that putting himself in Singles One means that he won't play."

 

“He thinks he’s courting your approval,” Sanada says, disdain in every syllable. “He thinks he’s proving himself to you as a captain. He’s slacking off!” 

 

Despite the vitriol in the words, his expression softens a little as he shuts the door behind him, reaching out a hand to tug on the back of Yukimura’s sleeve, bringing him close for a soft kiss.

 

Tension leaves Yukimura in a rush, and god, that's a _lot_ of tension, judging by the way he goes somewhat limp and wobbly for a moment. 

 

"Be nice about our baby, Gen-n- _n_ ," he sighs, flopping his arms over Sanada's shoulders and letting himself lean into that broad, _warm_ chest for a moment. "At least we have a rookie that tries hard. A lot of teams can't say that."

 

Sanada snorts at that, and his arms go around Yukimura, briefly holding him off the ground without really realizing it. “That’s certainly the case. Then again, have you seen the bracket that Seigaku’s been playing in? Pathetically easy.”

 

Yukimura hooks his chin over Sanada's shoulder, content to dangle for that brief moment. Yes, good. He could do this all night and be quite happy. "Mmmhm. They're really in for a rude awakening tomorrow. Shitenhouji is a good team with a solid lineup. I'd enjoy facing them in the finals." 

 

“ _I_ wouldn’t. Never again.” That stupid doubles team, with their stupid jokes, and their stupid wigs, and their stupid...ugh.

 

"I wouldn't make you play doubles against them," Yukimura cheerfully reassures him, giving Sanada's back a pat before he leans away. "Never again. Niou and Yagyuu would be fine. They'd just roll their eyes and ignore them. Ah, but that's thinking too far ahead." 

 

“Tomorrow’s match comes first,” Sanada agrees, finally letting Yukimura go. He’s not quite as warm as Sanada would like, but that will come in time. “Are there any matches you’re actually unsure of against Hyoutei? We’ve never lost to them, no matter what our lineup is.”

 

"Mmnn…" Yukimura flops back onto the edge of his bed, grabbing the lineup sheet and passing it to Sanada. "We'll win, that's not the issue. Doubles Two might be a loss, though, if Atobe is smart enough to put his one good pair up." Honestly, talking about a match that they've _definitely_ already won isn't something he can easily focus on. It feels _wrong_ that Marui knows what's going on and Sanada doesn't, because at _least_ Sanada should, but Sanada is worse than his parents ever were, and would definitely make sure that he didn't play a single match and--ugh. 

 

Sanada sits on the edge of the bed, absently reaching over to brush a strand of hair behind one of Yukimura’s ears. “Your hair is getting shiny again,” he says with a little smile, then turns to the sheet. “It could be _worse_. Hmm...do you think he’s putting me in doubles so often for a reason?”

 

 _That's not going to last_ , Yukimura miserably thinks. "He likes being the stand-out in singles. Not that he ever gets to play…" If he _did_ tell Sanada, there would have to be a way to do it that didn't make it sound _so_ bad. 

 

Sanada scowls down at the list. “That’s absurd. There’s no honor in a victory that’s just handed to you. You can’t just cut a door into a mountain, you have to scale the damn thing, and if he thinks that being Number One in _points_ is going to feel satisfying, he’ll taste my fist!”

 

"Uh huh." Shit, there's no good way to bring this up. If he doesn't tell Sanada the whole truth, then there's no _way_ he'll get out of it without Sanada dragging him down to a hospital _immediately_ for a doctor's full opinion, and, well, they've already given that. No, he just can't say anything. 

 

Sanada’s eyes flicker sideways for a moment. Yukimura isn’t exactly paying attention. Ah, it’s probably just because he’s boring. He turns back to the list, frowning. “Marui has to get over that flinchy thing. Maybe putting him in singles would work there when he doesn’t have anyone to rely on.”

 

"Mmhm." Right. If he just doesn't say anything, that's fine. That, coupled with not taking that _horrible_ stuff that makes him want to throw his own guts up on an hourly basis, should keep everything hidden until after Nationals-- _then_ he can tell Sanada, and it'll be awful still, but he can't keep him from playing at that point.

 

That’s about as much noninterest as Sanada can handle, and he reaches over, laying his hand against Yukimura’s forehead. “Come on, we’re taking you to the hospital.”

 

"Eh?" Yukimura blinks hard, jerking back. Was he talking out loud? No, he doesn't do that unless he's sleepwalking or weird things like that. "No way! I'm fine. Don't be weird, Gen." 

 

“Your temperature is up,” Sanada says patiently, keeping his voice calm as he lays a hand over Yukimura’s, “and you’re drifting off in the middle of conversations. We knew a relapse was possible, remember? It’s fine, no matter what’s gone wrong, we’ll just figure out how to get you back on track.” He gives that hand a squeeze that he hopes is comforting.

 

"You're being weird," Yukimura repeats, yanking his hand away with a huff. His heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest again, and that's just no good at all. _Calm down, Seiichi, he hasn't figured it out yet._ "I'm not drifting off, I was just thinking about other things." 

 

“I think I know by now when your temperature is up,” Sanada says patiently, again, and stands, making his way to the bathroom. “Thermometer in the same place? Call a cab if you don’t want your mother to find out yet.”

 

"You're being horrible," Yukimura groans, climbing up from the bed to follow after him. Shit, _shit_ , did he put those pills away? Unable to remember, he grabs at the back of Sanada's shirt, digging his heels in to try and haul him back. "I _just_ went in for a check-up, remember? And I was fine!"

 

“They obviously missed something.” Sanada sighs, turns, and cups Yukimura’s face in his hands, holding him gently. “It’s all right to be scared,” he says, looking into brown eyes as familiar as his own. “If you need me to take over some things again, that’s fine, just...trust me. You did before, remember?”

 

Yukimura scowls up at him, even as he tries to rapidly think of a way to turn this whole conversation around. "I'm not scared because there's nothing _wrong_. I _just_ went in, they did all the  normal tests, I'm _fine_ \--and--" Suddenly, an idea. Yeah. That's a good one, and he's pretty sure it'll work. "I just…I was distracted because I was thinking about other things--and--you know--a fever isn't the only thing that's going to make someone's body temperature go up." He swallows, and god, _he's_ lame, he doesn't even have to fake being a little nervous when he reaches out and curls his fingers into Sanada's shirt. "I was thinking about _you_." 

 

Sanada stops. For a second, even his pulse stops--or no, he realizes moments later with a flush, his pulse is just casually redirecting all of the blood in his body. He clears his throat, and mutters, “You...you mean you were thinking about…” 

 

His pulse is back now, hard and loud as a drum in his own ears as his hand comes up to curl over Yukimura’s. “I, uh...oh.”

 

That worked _really_ well, and the more Yukimura thinks about it, the better plan this becomes. _If I die before we get on a mountain, at least there's one thing crossed off the list,_ he dryly thinks. "Mmhm." He steps closer, peering up at Sanada through his lashes. "Who says we have to wait?"

 

Sanada’s mouth goes dry, and he loses his footing for a second, backing up against the wall. “Uh,” he tries, and it comes out broken into a squeak at the end. “W-we were going to wait until...Seiichi, I’ve been _planning_ this for a _year_ —”

 

"We don't have to go all the way or anything. _That_ can wait for the mountain." Yukimura steps after him, gripping Sanada's hand. Yes, the longer this goes on, the more he thinks this is a _great_ idea, especially when his own pulse starts racing. _Come on, body, cooperate with me._ "Do you know how much I think about you?" he breathes, burying his face into Sanada's neck so that the other boy doesn't have to see how hot his cheeks flush when he starts pushing Sanada's hand _down_. "It was bad enough when I was in the hospital, but now that I'm _home_ and I still can't be with you like I really want…"

 

“Ssss,” Sanada says, as his voice shorts out and he starts seeing spots from being so dizzy. He clears his throat, and tries again, though he isn’t entirely sure what he’s going to say. Yukimura is making some _very_ compelling points, like standing really close to him, which Sanada is pretty sure is cheating from how it makes him let out an odd creaking noise. “I’m--I--uh--S-Seii….”

 

Yeah, good. Now, if he could just--convince himself to be _really_ bold about this, and shove Sanada's hand between his legs because that sounds really good and makes his breath catch. Yukimura can't _quite_ bring himself to do it, though, but he _is_ pressed very close, and he can feel how _warm_ Sanada is and how his heart is beating so, so fast--

 

The knocking on his door sounds more like a stampede than anything. "Nii-chan! You have _guests!_ "

 

Yukimura groans, his head thunking against Sanada's shoulder. "Make them go _away_ , Kaede!" he snaps over his shoulder.

 

"But it's the whole team!"

 

Yukimura growls, and instead of going to the door, just reaches up and yanks Sanada down for a _real_ kiss. "You can't tell me this is a bad idea," he breathes, teeth catching Sanada's lower lip, "because you're _just_ as hard as I am."

 

Some dim part of Sanada’s mind that’s still functioning protests that this is _not_ an accurate portrayal of his desires since he’s almost always this hard, but that’s quickly strangled into a groan. “Let’s just ignore them for five minutes,” he hears himself whispering. “W-won’t take long, I need to touch you, I’ve waited so _long_ —”

 

“Buchou! I’m making a cake in your kitchen!”

 

“Yukimura-buchou! Did you see my lineup?”

 

“Puri!”

 

Yukimura has _never_ wanted to kill his whole team, but he certainly does right now. "Five minutes," he breathlessly agrees all the same, and one hand fumbles at the front of Sanada's pants, emboldened by the fact that Sanada sounds like he's going to die if Yukimura doesn't touch him _now_. 

 

"He's in there with _Gen-chan_ ," Kaede smugly tells someone outside of his bedroom, and Yukimura wants to kill his little sister, too. 

 

“No way! Sanada-fukubuchou, did you see—”

 

“Not now, Akaya. They might be _busy_.”

 

Somehow, even Kirihara’s enthusiasm doesn’t sour Sanada’s mood as fast as Yanagi’s knowing tone, and he regretfully pulls away. “Later,” he mutters, and ducks into the bathroom. “You go out first.”

 

Shit, nope, this is ruining everything. "No, you," Yukimura hurriedly demands, still unable to remember if those pills were put up or not, and he dives past Sanada and into the bathroom in time to shove him out of it and slam the door in his face. "Or wait just a minute!" 

 

"Busy with _what?_ Looking at my lineup? It's good, isn't it?"

 

Maybe this is a mercy in disguise, Yukimura miserably thinks, briefly knocking his head back against the bathroom door. He stashes the pair of bottles underneath the sink, tucked underneath half a dozen towels. Doing this makes him feel like a drug addict, which is so _great_. _Who would want to fuck someone that's all gross and sickly, anyway?_

 

“Fine,” Sanada mutters through the bathroom door, “I’ll go out first. Your shower doesn’t get all that cold, anyway.” He throws open the bedroom door, and glares Kirihara down. “Don’t you know not to interrupt your captain?” he thunders, grabbing the boy by the back of the neck and dragging him down the stairs. “Didn’t he get out of the hospital three weeks ago? Doesn’t he need his _rest_?”

 

“He needs a cake,” he hears from the direction of the kitchen, followed by, “No, Jackal, you’re holding it wrong!”

 

"How can I hold it wrong? It's just a mixing bowl!"

 

"Sanada-fukubuchou, I just--I wanted to make sure it was all okay!" Kirihara wails, somewhat panicked, trying to squirm out of his hold. "Come on, let me go!" 

 

"It can hardly be okay if you put me in singles again, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu mutters from where he sits on the couch, Kaede already having stolen his glasses.

 

"But I didn't!"

 

"Why are you all _here_ , anyway?" Yukimura complains when he finally bursts from his bedroom, taking the stairs two at a time. "Normally, we hold a party before and after _finals_." 

 

“Got bored,” Niou declares, flopping onto both the couch and Yagyuu at the same time. “Why not four parties this time? You’ve missed out on enough crap.”

 

“I’m making a full banquet,” Marui calls from the kitchen, “so nobody had better have had a snack!”

 

Sanada’s headache is back.

 

"Buchou! Yukimura-buchou, didn't my lineup look good this time?" Kirihara eagerly presses, managing to get free of Sanada's grasp and dart over to Yukimura. "You get to play and everything!"

 

"Didn't _you_ want to play, Akaya?" Yukimura wryly points out, setting a hand atop Kirihara's head. "You should have played Singles Three."

 

"No! I _need_ to be in Singles One." 

 

Yukimura tries not to roll his eyes. "Uh huh. Ma~ru~i," he hums, drifting off to the kitchen. "Was this all _your_ idea?" 

 

Marui shifts immediately in front of the door, and when that doesn’t exactly do much to block it, kicks Jackal in front of the door. “I’m _busy_ ,” he says very seriously. “I’m so busy. Buchou, this is a very important meal, so do not interrupt the creative process and get out of my kitchen.”

 

"You interrupted my _creative process_ with Sanada," Yukimura hisses underneath his breath. "This better be one hell of a cake."

 

"But Buchou, wasn't my lineup good? Wasn't it?"

 

"Oh my _god_ , Akaya--Yanagi, do something!" Yukimura groans, stalking back into the living room and swatting at Niou's legs on the couch. "Make room."

 

"Kaede-chan, _please_ give me my glasses back."

 

"My esteemed greatness doesn't have to return _anything_ to you!" 

 

“Yukimura,” Sanada says, affronted as he snatches the glasses out of Kaede’s hands, “I thought you said she was getting over this rude pattern of speech. Have all of you forgotten you are _guests_ in this home?”

 

“Puri.” Niou manages to snag the glasses on one toe, deftly whisking them close and depositing them squarely on Yagyuu’s face, shimmying further on top of Yagyuu when Yukimura starts squashing him. 

 

“Akaya,” Yanagi says patiently, pulling a brightly-colored pinwheel out of his bag and handing it over, “why don’t you sit quietly for five minutes? Remember what we said about giving people a chance to realize how much they like having you around.”

 

"Oh…yeah." Kirihara sulks, but sits.

 

"I'm not rude, I'm amazing," Kaede insists, pouting as she flops down into her father's esteemed comfy chair. It's something of a throne to her, at any rate.

 

"Yes, yes, you're the best, Kaede-kun," Yukimura sighs, sinking down into the couch even though Niou's feet eventually end back up in his lap. Whatever. "Listen, all of you. We're going to crush Hyoutei into the ground. If it isn't a clean sweep like the rest of this tournament has been, I'm going to be annoyed. That especially goes for you, Marui!" he calls towards the kitchen. 

 

“Why _me_?” Marui wails. “I’m playing doubles! It’s a joint effort, and we’re amazing!”

 

“Anyone who doesn’t pull his full weight will not be tolerated!” Sanada thunders. “Especially you, Akaya!”

 

"Eh?! Why wouldn't I pull my weight, I'm really good, I've _got this_ , Sanada-fukubuchou!"

 

"I'm singling you out because you _run from heavy shots_ and knowing _Atobe_ , he'll put his only good doubles pair against you in hopes of saving face." Yukimura huffs, and irritably pulls at one of Niou's toes. "Let's all just make sure Akaya doesn't have to play Atobe, all right?"

 

Kirihara's face falls. "But…but I really want to--"

 

" _Let's just make sure._ "

 

"I've got stamina," Kirihara mumbles sulkily. " _So much_. I could beat him, I could do it, I _could_." 

 

“Yes,” Sanada says, eyes boring into Kirihara’s around the brightly-colored toy, “because you fare so well against a school’s Ace. You can play Atobe after you beat Fuji Shuusuke.”

 

“Boss,” Niou says, wiggling his toes pointedly. “Boss.”

 

“Jackal, get out! You’re ruining my concentration with your bad bowl-holding! Kaede, you’re in!”

 

"My kingdom formation begins," Kaede hisses, clenching a fist in victory above her head as she darts off into the kitchen.

 

Kirihara curls up behind his pinwheel, sulking. "I could beat Fuji if I play him again. Just _wait_." 

 

"You're not going to be playing Fuji again. _I'll_ be picking the lineup for finals, you've done more than enough." Yukimura pulls on another one of Niou's toes. 

 

"But--"

 

"No buts, Akaya. You aren't playing Singles One in the finals, that much I know for sure." Yukimura's eyes glaze a little. "Shitenhouji. I want to play Shitenhouji. Shiraishi's tennis is so…"

 

“Perfect,” Sanada agrees, folding his arms. “But Yukimura, I’m _not_ playing doubles against Shitenhouji.”

 

“Genichirou, I’m sure they’ve forgotten all about last time—”

 

_“It’s not going to happen.”_

 

"Don't be ridiculous, Sanada. You'll be playing Singles Two. Do you hear that Chitose quit? What a _shame_ ," Yukimura sighs, letting his head roll over the back of the couch. "Yanagi, do you think you could hold Akaya together in a doubles match?"

 

"But I want to play singles!"

 

"Quiet, Akaya."

 

"Who _else_ would be playing singles, though? _I'm_ awesome!" Right, focus on the pinwheel, breathe in slow and deep, out just as slow and long.

 

"Dunno. You wanna play singles, Niou?" Yukimura gives his calf a pinch. "You could be Singles One, and I could play Singles Three against Shiraishi and his perfect, _perfect_ tennis."

 

Sanada’s face falls. “Chitose quit? _No_ , I was going to play him!” There’s some visible distress on his face, and he sits down heavily in the recently-vacated comfy chair.

 

“Or,” Niou says idly, playing with a lock of Yagyuu’s hair, “we could _not_ randomly throw away our rank as the best doubles pair in the country. Come on, it’s not like we’re going to lose to a couple dumb homo gags, we can out-homo them any day.”

 

“This is all predicated upon Shitenhouji beating Seigaku, of course,” Yanagi says mildly, but no one pays much attention.

 

“Buchou! Marui calls, distressed, from the kitchen. “I could beat the homos! Me and Jackal, they’re no match! I mean, for our tennis! And I’m _totally_ more of a genius than the weird old lady guy!”

 

"I'm not going to let you climb me like a tree on the court, Niou-kun," Yagyuu flat out warns him.

 

"Well, if you want to keep your doubles rank, then you can play Doubles One. Since when did you start caring so much, Niou?" Yukimura teases. 

 

"I'll play singles! I'll do it, Buchou--"

 

"Yanagi," Yukimura says, looking over to his friend, "that pinwheel is _not_ working." 

 

“We never thought it would work for long,” Yanagi agrees, and tucks the pinwheel back in his bag, pulling out three beanbags instead. “Akaya, do you still want to learn how to juggle?”

 

Niou, meanwhile, simply leans over and murmurs into Yagyuu’s ear, “You’ll let me climb you whenever I want, I bet. Eh, Yaaagyuu?”

 

"Hell yeah, Yanagi-sempai! Gimme!"

 

"Oh, that's just no good at all," Yukimura sighs, and then looks sympathetically over to Sanada before Kirihara can break something. "I'm sure Chitose would play you in a private match, you know. I can talk to Shiraishi about arranging a practice match between our schools regardless, if you want." 

 

" _Niou-kun_ ," Yagyuu admonishes, swatting the other boy away as his face slowly colors to bright red. 

 

"Oi, not on my couch," Yukimura snaps, giving Niou's rat tail a yank.

 

“If he quit,” Sanada points out gloomily, “he’s hardly going to be in a practice match. Put me in Singles One if you don’t want it, then. I don’t mind inspiring our team to victory.”

 

“You have to start with one,” Yanagi explains patiently. "Back, and forth. Back, and forth.”

 

"Mm, but if I talk to Shiraishi, he might be able to convince Chitose," Yukimura lightly points out. "You know they're close. It'll be good, I'll talk to him, but in the meantime, Singles One is yours."

 

"Nooo, _Buchou_ \--"

 

"Oh, be quiet and juggle, Akaya." 

 

Kirihara sulks, and irritably proceeds to do so. 

 

“If you can get him to play,” Sanada agrees. “Maybe he’ll do Singles One, you know Shiraishi never does anymore.”

 

“Akaya, please try catching the bag with your other hand rather than throwing it at my face, as a general preference.”

 

“I have appetizers!” Marui announces from the kitchen, and sends Kaede running out with a tray of sausage curls baked into fresh herb biscuits, alongside vegetable kabobs.

 

Akaya abandons his beanbags (they end up in Yanagi's face, of course) in favor of launching himself at food. "Ah! Sorry, Yanagi-sempai! I'm just pretty sure I'm gonna die if I don't eat."

 

"You've redeemed yourself, Marui!" Yukimura calls into the kitchen, snatching Kaede over by the back of her shirt to get first pick.

 

"Nii-chan, you're gonna get fat."

 

"I'm _never_ going to be fat, shut up." 

 

"You're going to get fat and never fit into the dresses Kaachan makes you model--"

 

" _Kaede!_ " Yukimura hisses, horrified. "Shut up!"

 

“Don’t worry, Buchou!” Marui calls gleefully. “A lot of things don’t have meat, and everything is designed to make you super fat and healthy. And you’d look _awful_ in a dress, super shoulders!”

 

“Tell that to his mother,” Sanada grumbles around two or three sausage biscuits. “She doesn’t understand.”

 

“Ah,” Yanagi asks delicately, “is there anything…less, ah…”

 

“Jackal, take this plate of plain blanched vegetables and a bread roll to Mr. Boring.”

 

“Many thanks, Bunta.”

 

"At least all of _you_ understand," Yukimura bemoans, taking a solid bite out of his kabob. Oh, he can die happy now. He curls up around it and the other one that he snagged happily. "I don't want to be fat, though, so don't overfeed me, Marui." 

 

"There's _one_ dress that makes him look like a _princess_ \--"

 

"Does anyone want a little sister?" Yukimura crossly interrupts.

 

"Mine is quite sweet, actually," Yagyuu idly puts in.

 

Kaede makes a face. "Yeah, I know her. She's in my class, and she's _boring._ "

 

"Must be…umm…what's that word--oh yeah, genetic!" Kirihara pipes up. 

 

Yagyuu looks nothing short of horrified. "I'm not boring!"

 

“I’m actually coming to Mei-chan’s defense here,” Niou pipes up, stealing broccoli off the end of Yagyuu’s skewer. “Kaede, you have to be nice to her, she’s real sweet and not _nearly_ as boring as her brother.”

 

“Is she a nerd too?” Sanada asks.

 

“Buchou, you’re not eating enough!” Marui hollers. “Your teeth have a very distinctive sound and _I don’t hear it!_ ”

 

"How in the world can you know what my teeth sound like?" Yukimura incredulously shouts back. 

 

Kaede's eyes roll to the sky as she flops down on the ground, gnawing on a biscuit. "But she's a _big_ nerd. She cries if she's called on in class, and she won't play tennis!"

 

Yukimura stretches out a leg and uses his sister's head as a foot rest. "On the tennis front, you _have_ to be nice and teach her. That's how you get worthy opponents, look at how good I made Sanada!"

 

"Lame," Kaede declares, shoving her brother's leg off. "Marui-kun, Nii-chan isn't eating!"

 

"I'm eating!" Yukimura quickly argues, hurriedly trying to finish off his first kabob.

 

Marui’s eyes gleam threateningly at him from the doorway. “There will be cake soon,” he intones, slowly sliding back into the kitchen. “And you’re going to eat _all of it._ ”

 

“Should that sound threatening?” Sanada demands. “Because it sounds threatening.”

 

Niou kicks back in Yagyuu’s lap and starts breaking a biscuit into tiny pieces, tossing them into Kaede’s hair. “Hey Boss, ten points if you get one in Sanada’s cleavage.”

 

"I always eat all of your cake, Marui!" Yukimura protests, even as he leans forward to pluck a biscuit piece out of sister's hair. "Sanada, lean forward, just a little bit." 

 

"Mom's gonna be mad if there's biscuit everywhere," Kaede solemnly says, even as she plucks the pieces out of her hair to eat them herself. 

 

"Why does she care, she never cleans herself," Yukimura disinterestedly replies. 

 

"Mei-chan plays tennis with _me_ ," Yagyuu mutters underneath his breath, still stuck on the idea of his poor sister being tormented by the hell beast that is Yukimura Kaede. 

 

“I don’t have cleavage! _Seiichi!"_

 

Yanagi leans forward, and a thick crumb manages to land directly in the cleft between Sanada’s pectorals. “I do believe that’s twenty points to me for excessive length.”

 

_“Renji!”_

 

“I don’t blame her for not wanting to play with Kaede,” Niou says, pretending to attempt to speak quietly. “I mean, Mei-chan’s obviously the best one in her class, she probably just doesn’t want to embarrass anyone.”

 

"Damn it, Yanagi," Yukimura laughs as he aims, fires, and misses, the piece of biscuit ended up on Sanada's collarbone. "You're _not_ supposed to be better at this, I know that cleavage really intimately!"

 

"Wait," Kirihara pipes up, sliding out of his food coma somewhat, "don't you use cleavage to talk about _girls?_ Sanada-fukubuchou isn't a girl."

 

Kaede twitches, her eyes landing sharply upon Niou. "She's _not_ better than me. I'm the best! Me! The Crimson Blade!" 

 

"Giving yourself a nickname isn't cute _or_ impressive, Kaede," Yukimura hums.

 

Niou shrugs. “Mei-chan beat me once. You never have. Piyo.”

 

“Crimson Blade is a startlingly pedestrian nickname as well,” Yanagi chimes in. “It says nothing about your dominance on the court, merely existing as a rephrasing of the kanji in your name. Genichirou, lean forward a little more.”

 

“I’m going to tie both of you in a knot,” Sanada growls, tucking his legs up to his chest and stuffing half a kabob in his mouth in one bite.

 

Kaede stares around at the team, slack-jawed for a moment. "I will not forget this," she hisses, climbing to her feet. "You'll regret these attempts to dethrone me!"

 

"Oh, she's gone," Yukimura mildly comments, watching her storm up the stairs. "Thank god. Ah, _score!"_ he crows, one very lucky shot delivering a piece of biscuit down the one and only opening of Sanada's shirt still available. "Niou, if Yagyuu's little sister really beat you, we're gonna need to have a conversation." 

 

“She did,” Niou assures him. “I mean, it was a one-point match, and Yagyuu got his overshirt and undershirt stuck together and accidentally took them both off so I was pretty distracted, but she _sure did._ ”

 

Sanada fumbles in his shirt, furious and red-faced, and throws the stick of his kabob at Yanagi. “No more points! My shirt is off limits, and so is my chest!”

 

" _Niou-kun_ \--"

 

"That doesn't count, then," Yukimura dismissively waves off. "Yagyuu's pasty whiteness is enough to leave anyone blinded for a brief moment. Sanada, just take your shirt off, do us all a favor." 

 

“This isn’t some kind of an _onsen!_ This—”

 

“Ooh, we should go to an onsen,” Niou says immediately. 

 

“I wouldn’t mind,” Yanagi agrees.

 

“Just wait for the cake to finish baking!”

 

"I wanna go to an onsen!" Kirihara immediately, eagerly agrees. "Can we? Like, tonight?" 

 

"It's certainly not too late to go," Yagyuu says. "Niou-kun, for once everyone is agreeing with your ideas. You should be proud." 

 

"Ahhh, that's no fair," Yukimura bemoans, lurching forward to toss his last kabob stick onto the empty platter. "The doctors _still_ won't take my staples out, so I can't--ah, shit," he mutters, clapping a hand over his own mouth. Admitting that little tidbit around _Sanada_ kind of ruins the whole 'everything was perfect at my last check-up' thing. 

 

A long moment of silence settles over everyone. Then, quietly, Sanada stands, sets down what’s left of his kabob, and walks upstairs.

 

Niou winces. “Think he’s expecting you to go after him, Boss.”

 

"I'm trash," Yukimura mutters, and he quickly turns to Yagyuu, grabbing one of his arms. "What do I say to convince him, medically, that I'm 3000% okay?" 

 

"Um--"

 

"You have five seconds or I'm asking Yanagi."

 

Yagyuu swallows hard. "Well--"

 

Yukimura's gaze turns plaintively to his friend. "Yanagi, help."

 

Yanagi frowns slightly, then clears his throat. “Well, while it isn’t my exact realm of expertise, producing the documentation from your doctor that you’re entirely healed should do the—”

 

“He’s _not_ , you oblivious asshole,” Niou growls, throwing a tasteful throw pillow at Yanagi’s face. “Duh. Wait, was everyone else really missing that?”

 

“Tell him you’ll be fine after you eat my cake! It’s true!”

 

"Bunta, pay attention to the oven," Jackal hisses, dragging the other boy back.

 

"That's not going to help," Yukimura groans, releasing Yagyuu to bury his face briefly in his hands. " _Damn it_. I had him convinced and _everything_. I'm the worst, I'm really the worst." 

 

"…But you _can't_ still be that bad, Yukimura-buchou," Kirihara hesitantly presses. "You had the surgery and everything." 

 

"I'm gonna just kill myself," Yukimura mumbles, hauling himself to his feet and steeling himself before heading up the stairs and to his bedroom. Shit, _shit_ , he's in so much trouble. The pills are hidden at least, that's one plus. "Genichirou, come on," he attempts, shutting the door behind himself. "It's just that the incision wasn't healing up that well, you know how much I've been training, so that's not anything weird!"

 

Sanada opens the door behind him, coming in from the hallway. “I just got off the phone with your doctor,” he says quietly, not facing Yukimura. He doesn’t really say anything after that, not that he needs to.

 

It feels rather like the bottom of his stomach has dropped out. "Oh," Yukimura weakly manages, slowly sitting himself down onto the edge of his bed. "Okay." What does he even _say_ to that, honestly. 

 

Sanada doesn’t sit. He walks into the bathroom, leaving the door open and looking in the medicine cabinet. “I asked if you’d missed your prescription. He told me he was concerned you weren’t taking it after getting the bad news. Did you flush it?”

 

Yukimura seriously considers the killing himself thing. It sounds better than listening to all of this. "Under the sink and towels," he dully supplies. "I've been taking it." Just thinking about it makes him feel sick again. "But I'm not going to for the rest of the week." 

 

Sanada nods, then kneels down to check under the sink and towels, retrieving the medication and pocketing it. Then finally, he turns to face Yukimura, and the pain, worry, and anger is naked on his face. “You didn’t trust me.”

 

"Considering your first reaction to feeling that I had a fever was to whisk me off to the hospital again, how could I?" Yukimura defensively replies, curling his hands against the edge of his mattress. "I _have_ to play in this tournament." 

 

“Why?” Sanada demands, striding to the bed and grabbing Yukimura by the shoulders. “What the _hell_ is so important about this tournament? It’s not worth your _life_! Fuck the tournament! Get better, go pro next year, play for thirty years, but don’t….don’t _leave_ me…” Angry enough to be vulgar, overwhelmed anyway, Sanada crumples to his knees, grip on Yukimura’s shoulders going weak.

 

"You _still_ don't get it!" The way Sanada is acting makes _him_ feel like a selfish child, but now--"Do you think I _want_ to leave you?" Yukimura demands, sliding off the edge of his bed to flop onto the floor next to Sanada. "Do you think I _like_ hearing that I'm sick again? I'm not trying to leave you, I'm not _trying_ to make it worse, I just--forget going pro, this might be the only chance I _have_." His lower lip trembles, and he slowly scrunches himself up into a ball, shaking his head. "I thought going through with that surgery would _fix it_ , but even that didn't work. What chance do I really have this time?" 

 

“We’ll find you another doctor,” Sanada says, still not meeting Yukimura’s eyes, and something hot and wet splashes onto his hands. “We’ll take you somewhere else--Europe, or America, somewhere with better specialists, I’ll get the money from my family if yours can’t, we’ll figure something out. I’m—” He chokes off a sentence he’s not ready to say, and it turns into, “I’m _behind_ you, just tell me what you want to do. I’ll help you. God, I’d give my life for this to be over.”

 

"Genichirou." Suddenly, there's some weird, intense calm that floods his veins, and it probably has a lot to do with the fact that Sanada's the one crying now, and that always kind of does it, in situations like these. "It's _okay_." Yukimura lurches forward, his hands on Sanada's face. "I don't _want_ to be in a hospital right now. I don't _want_ to go to Europe or America right now. I just want to play in this tournament, get our third Nationals win, and have fun with everyone else before going up to that mountain. Okay? Please don't cry, you're going to make me cry and that's always gross." 

 

It’s no use, of course. Once he starts crying like this, it’s difficult to stop, though Sanada tries, he _tries_. “I…”

 

He gasps for breath, a shuddering, elusive thing. “Thinking about you...going through this alone, because you didn’t think you could _trust_ me...I must be the world’s worst…”

 

"No, hush, you're so dumb," Yukimura groans, though there's no vitriol behind the words. He's too busy hauling Sanada forward, shoving the other boy's face into his chest. "I was _going_ to tell you, right after the tournament was over. I was going to try and tell you today, but I got scared of what you'd do." He shoves his face down into Sanada's hair. "You _can't_ tell my parents." 

 

Sanada shakes his head, as much as he can when his face is buried in Yukimura’s chest. He doesn’t make much effort to move, though. This is just about the best place he could be, because Yukimura is still _warm_ —

 

Not like those dreams he has, that he’d thought were over. Not like what could be the case in six months, visiting Yukimura at the hospital and seeing the curtains drawn, seeing a white sheet laid over a cold body—

 

Sanada can feel himself trembling, but he forces the tears to stop, somehow. Eventually. “I,” he says, through a shaking breath, “am going to take such good care of you. You--you _can’t_ lie to me about this kind of thing, Seiichi. It makes me hate myself.”

 

"Well, stop it," is the grumble of a response. Yukimura holds tighter to Sanada still, giving him a firm, solid squeeze. "I didn't _want_ to lie about it. I don't like lying to you about anything. I'm really, really sorry, I just…I thought it couldn't hurt for a few days, and then once the tournament was over, it wasn't going to matter, anyway…" He sighs, slumping back. "This really sucks." 

 

Sanada nods, feeling suddenly very tired, and very empty. “That’s an understatement.” He can’t stop feeling raw, as if his insides have been scraped over a ginger grater, leaving him exposed and bleeding. It’s how he’d felt all the time, when Yukimura was sick, in the days he’d thought far behind him now. “What did the doctor say exactly? Is it as bad as it was? Where is it now? Is there another surgery?”

 

"It's the same thing." Every time he has to admit it, it's worse. Maybe he should just get it over with and tell the whole team at once. That narrows down the number of times it could come up, at least. "They just--didn't get all of it, you know? So it's back, and I'll start getting that numbness all over again. Even if there was another surgery--which there isn't--I don't know if I'd do it again." 

 

“If it’s the same thing,” Sanada says, wiping his face with the back of one hand, “and they just...messed up the surgery the first time...why can’t they do it again? Not that I want you to go through it again, but if it’s that or the year you had…”

 

"Because they don't think they _can_ get it all. They need to run more tests, but I guarantee they're gonna say that," Yukimura sighs, letting his head thunk back against the side of his bed. "And instead they're just going to medicate me until I _want_ to die." _I can't handle eight months of throwing up every day again, I_ can't _._

 

 _Have to be sensible. He needs me to be sensible._ Sanada takes in a deep breath, because it’s not like going to pieces is going to help anyway. If Yukimura lives, he lives. If he dies, they die. “Whatever you think is best. If your doctors are no good, we’ll get you better ones, and I’ll support you. No matter what you need.” More than ever, he wishes with all his might that his marrow, his organs, his blood were a match, but he’s had them all tested with no results.

 

 _It's not a matter of doctors and you know it_. "Mm. _After_ the tournament," Yukimura gently reminds him, sliding his fingers through Sanada's hair and kneading a little. "Until then, I'm normal and healthy as far as everyone knows. Well, you know. As healthy as I can be with gross metal in my back. Sure you won't pull that out for me?" 

 

“Seiichi, you _know_ the thought of that makes me gag.”

 

"Lame. I'll see if Niou will do it, then." He won't, not really. "Oh, ah. Just so you know. Marui kind of...knows already."

 

Sanada inhales deeply, then exhales. “All right. No wonder he won’t meet my eyes.” He tries not to think about Marui knowing before him—no, it’s fine, he must have just seen something he wasn’t supposed to. “That explains why he’s so insistent on feeding you tonight.”

 

"…I kind of showed up during the round one match and watched for a second. He saw me, and wanted to know why I was so upset at the time." Yukimura sighs, flopping his head down against Sanada's. "He's making me a cake. I have to eat a lot of it or he's going to be mad." 

 

“Sneak it to me under the table.” Sanada’s voice is mainly tired now, an echo he recognizes in Yukimura’s. “Just three more days. Then you’ll let me take care of you properly, right?”

 

"Mm." Yukimura stuffs his face properly into Sanada's hair. "'m really sorry for not telling you. For once, I just didn't want you to have to worry." 

 

“Seiichi, I’m always worried.” One hand comes up around Yukimura’s waist, the other stroking his hair gently. “But...I mean, I wouldn’t say I was _ready_ for this, but I was kind of...I mean, we knew it was a possibility. I just didn’t want to find out like _that_.”

 

"You could have _not_ called my doctor and instead remained oblivious for a few days." Yukimura pauses, and begrudgingly adds, "This definitely means you're not going to do it with me tonight, doesn't it." 

 

“Since I know those pills make you vomit and kill your erection,” Sanada agrees, “it’s probably not a good night for it. Besides, I _do_ have it all planned out.”

 

"I'll have you know I have already thrown up enough today to make sure nothing happened tonight!" Theoretically. "But your point stands about the erection thing. Mostly, I just wanted to touch _yours_." 

 

Sanada’s smile is weary, and the twitch his cock gives is only halfhearted. “Later. On the mountain. Let’s win Nationals first.”

 

Yukimura sighs. Well, it was worth a shot. "Yeah. I _do_ like winning. Before then, let's go eat cake--I hope you brought your eyedrops with you." 

 

“Dammit.”

 

"It could be worse. You could look like Yagyuu does every day." 

 


	20. Kintarou & Ryouma, Tezuka & Atobe & Ryouma

“Yukimura in Singles Three.” 

 

Atobe’s frustration turns to vindication, and he throws his head back, laughing aloud. It’s more for the benefit of his team than anything, though he can’t help but feel glad now that he _knows_ what’s been going on. “And here I thought it might all have been some elaborate plan. Just the kind of tricks I should have expected, but still--the winner will be Hyoutei!”

 

Yukimura blinks back at Atobe, honest, open confusion on his face. "Eh?" 

 

It's already been one of those days, if one counts last night. Even with Sanada helping him hide portions of Marui's cake, he swears he still had dreams about being buried in it. Now there's this rather odd reaction to the lineup announcements…

 

He smiles, his head tilting slightly to the side. "Rikkai doesn't play tricks, Atobe. What are you referring to, exactly?" 

 

“Your attempts to win by underhanded methods, of course,” Atobe says, waving a dismissive hand. “But I have faith in my team. I didn’t need to withhold the lineup just to make myself feel more secure.” He snaps, and the stadium bursts into raucous cheers.

 

Yukimura's smile starts to twitch a bit. "…But we never withhold lineups." 

 

Atobe’s scornful expression says it all. His mouth helps. “Now to claim that my glorious self is lying--the year has changed Rikkai, has it not? Let’s just shake hands and get down to business rather than hearing your falsehoods.”

 

Yukimura might be offering Atobe his hand, but mostly, he's slowly, _methodically_ turning back and staring straight back at a certain second year. "A.ka. _ya_."

 

"Shit," Kirihara whispers underneath his breath, eyes wide. "I _knew_ I forgot something. I'll do it right now! I've _got this_ , Yukimura-buchou--"

 

"It's a little late now, Akaya. It's right there, on the _board_ ," Yukimura snaps, jabbing a finger in the direction of the lineup in question as he sweeps back over to the bench, ripping his jersey off. 

 

"Buchou, you're saying my name in katakana, I can _hear it_ \--" 

 

" _Sanada._ "

 

Kirihara blanches, immediately backing away. "No no no no no, Sanada-fukubuchou, _please_ \--"

 

The sound of the backhand echoes a little when he delivers it in a stadium. Interesting.

 

“Rikkai team,” the referee calls, “refrain from horseplay on the tournament grounds! First warning!”

 

Atobe tuts, shaking his head slowly. “You may have found a scapegoat,” he calls, “but Hyoutei knows now that the great Reigning Kings fears the Emperor of Ice!”

 

He turns, pleased with how things are going (even if it doesn’t look as if he’ll get to play at all, damn) and mutters to Ootori and Shishido, “We got lucky. Play as fast as you can. Don’t pull a single punch.”

 

“Shut up, Atobe.”

 

Dammit. At least Shishido said it quietly enough that the other team won’t overhear it, this time.

 

"Shit, Yukimura-buchou's mad," Jackal mutters, watching the way their captain fairly stalks back out to the court after retrieving his racquet.

 

"Kirihara-kun, you'll need to take responsibility later," Yagyuu warns the second year that is currently curled up on the bleachers and whimpering. 

 

"But I just _forgot!_ He can't be _that_ mad, can he?"

 

"Of all the teams to forget to post the lineup for, though," Jackal points out, "you did it on the _very worst one_."

 

Kirihara lurches over to Yanagi, clutching at one of his arms. " _Help_ , Yanagi-sempai." 

 

On Hyoutei's side of the stadium bleachers, it's Tezuka who lightly clears his throat behind Atobe after having wormed his way down the rather packed seats. He expected no less courtesy of this particular match, but still. It borders on ridiculous. "So Rikkai _forgot_ to post their lineup. Charming." 

 

“Yes, forgot,” Atobe murmurs, leaning back against the fence to make it easier to chat with Tezuka. “Supposedly. Interesting how they just _forgot_ when otherwise it would have guaranteed that everyone would know just what shape he’s back in, isn’t it?” He shakes his head, annoyed. “I don’t know that even Kabaji’s purity is enough to beat him, but at least the correct doubles pairs are facing off.”

 

"You got lucky in that regard." Tezuka's eyes keenly follow Yukimura's presence on the court, pointedly ignoring the stare from across the damned stadium that he's felt since he made his presence known within Hyoutei's ranks. Gross. "But considering he's not even bothering to make a spectacle of keeping his jersey on while he plays today, maybe you'll get lucky here, too." _Or maybe it's just hot as hell out here, even though it's morning._ Who even knows when it comes to Rikkai. 

 

“Don’t pass this along,” Atobe says out of the corner of his mouth--it’s possible someone on Rikkai can read lips— “but I think Kabaji might actually fare better there than myself. He’s less...hmm, what’s a kind way to say….he’s less _cerebral_.”

 

Tezuka's eyebrows arch. "You would have the yips in about five seconds," he deadpans, "so you're probably right. Fair warning, by the way. Echizen is coming this morning to watch."

 

Atobe huffs out a breath. “You’re in charge of his freak-out,” he says shamelessly. “Virtue of being his actual captain.”

 

"He's going to yell at you. _You_ were there."

 

Atobe shrugs. “For all he knows, his victor was hooded and masked. Mind you, he _was_ hooded, and I only spoke to him for a moment. Could have been any willowy teenage wandering tennis prodigy.”

 

"If you think Echizen thinks you're that stupid," Tezuka tiredly replies, "then maybe you actually _are_." 

 

"Singles Three, Yukimura Seiichi versus Kabaji Munehiro, Yukimura to serve!"

 

"Let's have a good match, Kabaji-san."

 

"Usu."

 

" _That's_ Yukimura Seiichi?" 

 

Oh, god, they're _here_ now. Tezuka had prided himself on escaping the crowd of his team and getting into the stadium first, but it seems as if they've found them. It's Momoshiro's turn to comment first, of _course_. "Damn, is he going to be okay? That's the guy that took out Taka-san's arm." 

 

"That's just because he copied the Hadoukyuu," Fuji points out. 

 

"Yeah, well, how else are you supposed to beat a guy that's nothing but power like that?" Momo mutters.

 

"Technique." Tezuka glances back over his shoulder at his team. "You'll see soon enough. Where's Echizen?"

 

"Cheers," Ryouma mutters in greeting, yawning as he wriggles his way through the crowd. "So did Rikkai-buchou actually show up this time?" 

 

Tezuka waits. It takes about fifteen seconds for it all to process; he knows, because he counts. Ryouma's silence is somewhat legendary as he slowly sits down, and doesn't say another word. _This is your fault_ is all that Tezuka's look down to Atobe says.

 

Well, this is less than ideal, Atobe supposes. Still, at least he has a match to oversee, which lets him neatly avoid Ryouma’s eyes for a while. He can’t quite avoid taking a quick peek, and—

 

Ah. 

 

That’s not a happy child.

 

“Damn,” Atobe sighs, watching the match. “At least he made it three games in. See it starting?”

 

“Oishi! What’s going on? It looks like he can’t even see!”

 

“I don’t get it,” Taka says, confused as he watches the match. “Kabaji must be far stronger than that man. Why is he acting afraid?”

 

"It's like Tezuka said--it's all technique," Oishi explains, sighing as he sinks back into his seat. "Every single point is long because Yukimura returns every shot. After awhile, that just…builds up in your mind."

 

"Like no matter where you hit, he'll return it." 

 

Oishi blinks, glancing over to Ryouma. "Echizen, are you all right? You're a little pale."

 

"I'm fine." His fingers curl over his knees tightly, all to keep them from shaking visibly. 

 

Tezuka spares Ryouma one glance and one glance only. Calling attention to the fact that Ryouma is obviously intimidated isn't going to do him any good right now. "He's not in perfect form, though, Atobe," he quietly says. "Those first two games that Kabaji took are telling. He's is the only person I've ever seen take games off of Yukimura in an official tournament."

 

Atobe sighs. “I didn’t want to win or lose like this,” he admits. “No wonder he didn’t play in the preliminaries. He’s got to be barely clinging to consciousness. How many drugs do you think he’s on, Tezuka?”

 

"Enough to not be legally playing here," Tezuka dryly says, thinking about his own painkillers that he religiously pops before every match now, whether he needs them or not. "You could make a scene about it, if you wanted to." _But you won't, will you._

 

The look Atobe gives him is nothing less than insulted. “I won’t hear that kind of thing, especially from you. That’s not the way a true rival behaves.”

 

He sighs, and nibbles delicately on a single fingernail. “Even if there weren’t a moral component, I hardly want to draw attention to the fact that one of my best players is being bested by a cancer-riddled ill child.”

 

"Handily," Tezuka feels the need to add. "He's being beaten _handily_." Why didn't he challenge _Yukimura_ on that day? It would have been much more satisfying…something to tell Sanada later, if he feels like it. 

 

"I was pretty sure," Ryouma suddenly says, his voice somewhat unsteady, "that Rikkai's captain was going to be like Sanada. But _bigger_." 

 

"Nope," Fuji breezily says, leaning sideways already. "Yukimura Seiichi has always been like this."

 

"Game, Yukimura! 5 games to 2!"

 

"Fast," Momoshiro mutters, shaking his head. "What the hell. Oi, Echizen, don't act like you're gonna pass out, did you eat breakfast this morning?" 

 

“Don’t go getting too afraid just yet,” Atobe says, voice carrying a little more as Kabaji stumbles around the court--ah, Atobe’s heart aches at that. “You still have to defeat Shiraishi’s team before you can worry about the Child of God _or_ my glorious self.”

 

Even by now, Taka knows to be ready with physical support when someone mentions Shiraishi, just in case Fuji tips entirely over.

 

The muttering on the bench among Hyoutei is _not_ encouraging. “Just like last year,” someone mutters, and “Even Kabaji’s no match,” and “If this is what Singles Three is like, even Atobe doesn’t stand a chance in Singles One.”

 

Atobe’s smile fades, and it’s with a glare that he kicks the bench. “Cheer for Kabaji!” he commands, and the look in his eyes must be truly frightening for them to start cheering so promptly, so loudly.

 

Not that it does much good, but that seemed set in stone from the very beginning. 

 

That being said, even from the stadium bleachers, Tezuka can tell that Yukimura is drenched with sweat, and that has only a little to do with the heat. The last game flies by, if only because it's a series of double faults and no-return aces, all courtesy of Kabaji's continuing yips. It's hard not to feel a pang of sympathy at that, and Tezuka looks away after Yukimura claims the match point with a beautiful backhand that doesn't match the obvious irritation creasing his brow. 

 

"Game and match, Rikkai's Yukimura! 6 games to 2!"

 

"For someone that won so easily, he doesn't look too happy about it," Ryouma mutters.

 

"In all the official matches Yukimura Seiichi has ever played, he's never dropped a single game," Inui chimes in, only now looking up from where he had been furiously taking notes. "Until now, of course. Sloppy, for him." 

 

" _That_ was sloppy?" Momoshiro incredulously replies.

 

"That," Tezuka agrees, "was sloppy." 

 

Atobe idly notes the way that Yukimura’s team waits until he’s out of the line of sight of the audience before running to him. They all know he’s still unwell, then, and are covering for him. In English, Atobe mutters, “Here goes the Hail Mary,” as Shishido and Ootori take to the court, readying that intense serve. 

 

He’d been a lot more confident of those two when they hadn’t been facing the best serve and volley player in the country and the man widely known to have the most impenetrable defense in the country, of course.

 

He leaves the bench for a moment, hurrying to Kabaji’s side, swiping a towel from Hiyoshi, who won’t be playing and doesn’t need it. “Kabaji, can you hear me?” he asks, wrapping the towel around his old friend’s neck.

 

There's a moment where Kabaji's mind keeps swimming, everything a blur including his hearing, but he eventually manages, in English: "Yes, and I'll live." 

 

"I've already seen enough," Ryouma mumbles, shoving himself up from his seat.

 

"Echizen," Oishi immediately scolds, turning to him. "Don't be rude, sit down and watch the rest of the matches."

 

"They're all gonna be the same." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "What's the point? Even Atobe-sempai knows." 

 

 _It’s not true,_ Atobe wants to say. _We...could take Doubles Two._

 

If they’re lucky.

 

Singles Two will be a massacre. Jirou might not know it, but facing Sanada will be no fun at all, no flashy techniques, just a solid philosophy and a lot of speed and power. Doubles One is a joke; the best doubles team in the country against Oshitari and Gakuto makes him want to leap off a bridge.

 

He could take Singles One. He could, he knows--but they won’t get that far, and it won’t matter. 

 

Still…. “Ahn? Ryouma, where’s your friendly spirit? Do you think Hyoutei will leave its friends when you find yourself in trouble? Not a chance! Our voices would ring out even more loudly!”

 

“Atobe,” Shishido growls from the court, “you’re _way_ too noisy, shut _up_.”

 

Ryouma's eyes sharpen and narrow. "Considering you _knew_ that I played Yukimura that night and didn't tell me," he says flatly in English, "your friendly spirit doesn't count for much."

 

Fuji whistles quietly. 

 

Tezuka shoves his glasses up. "Echizen, sit down."

 

"I'm going." Ryouma turns on his heel, taking the bleacher steps two at a time. 

 

“ _Merde_.” Atobe curses under his breath, and very nearly turns and runs after the boy, and manages to swallow his urge at the last second. “Tezuka,” he urges quietly, “I can’t leave in the middle of the match. If you can hold him, I’ll talk to him after.”

 

Tezuka exhales a long, aggravated sigh. " _You_ dug this grave," he reminds the other boy underneath his breath before he turns away, taking after Ryouma in short order. 

 

"This is gonna be good," Fuji hums, scrunching himself contently up against Taka's side. 

 

There has to be some kind of food stand around here _somewhere_.

 

Kintarou peeks his head into a few bathrooms, a janitor’s closet, and what looks like the control room for the lights--which he is smart enough not to touch, even if Shiraishi probably wouldn’t think so. 

 

Smug with his victory, he peeks through a few more doors, then catches sight of a familiar-looking cap around his own height.

 

 _Koshimae_.

 

Kintarou’s body sings with anticipation and delight, and he bounds after the boy, ducking through traffic, somehow winding up in the parking lot before he actually manages to catch up. “Hey! Koshimae! It’s me, Tooyama Kintarou from Shitenhouji!”

 

Vending machines are his best friends right now, because at least they give him Ponta, and don't tell him that he's capable of winning when he very clearly _isn't_. Honestly, Ryouma isn't sure if he feels like screaming or crying. Maybe sleeping is a more viable option.

 

He _knows_ Tezuka is following him, but avoiding him seems like a much better plan. Tezuka probably knew. _Everyone_ probably knew about Yukimura, and they just didn't want to tell him so he wouldn't put it all together in his head. 

 

_All that training was for nothing._

 

(That's usually the case, when he thinks about his father, too, and it makes Fuji-sempai make one hell of a lot more sense to him.)

 

None of this makes a difference, anyway. He should've known better than to come to Japan and play for some _stupid_ middle school team. He could be going pro right now, he could be _doing something better_ , but instead, he's getting himself all freaked out over some kid with _cancer_. "What do you want?" he snaps, flopping down onto the nearest bench and flipping open the tab to his can. "Koshimae isn't my name, get it right already." 

 

Kintarou slams into Ryouma, sitting next to him on the bench and grabbing his hands. He can _feel_ the strength in those hands, even if they’re slender and small, and he just _knows_ that this guy _gets it._ “Hey, I know we’re not supposed to play before our match today, but you have to play really hard, okay? There’s no one strong like you in Osaka!”

 

"…You are _so_ weird," Ryouma mutters, yanking his hands away--or, well, trying to. Kintarou is a lot stronger than he looks. Weirdo. "I already told you I'm not playing singles against you." Maybe he'll just skip out entirely.

 

“You’re not?” Maybe it shouldn’t be a surprise, but it kind of _is_. “Buuut Shiraishi said that maybe you were playing a brain game with me! Ha, you won’t catch me so easy--I’m ready to play you!” There’s a desperate eagerness in his eyes, and Kintarou _mostly_ stops himself from climbing all over the other boy.

 

"Get off of me," Ryouma complains all the same, because Kintarou is _really_ close to him even if he's not on him quite yet. "I'm not playing mind games with you; I'm playing doubles. I probably won't even get to play if all the upperclassmen win like they're supposed to." 

 

Kintarou lets out a frustrated noise, falling dramatically back against the bench. “But I haven’t gotten to play _all tournament!_ They keep putting me on reserve, it’s _awful_. I didn’t start playing on the team so I could sit around and waaaatch, I want to play!”

 

"Maybe it's because you're obnoxious," Ryouma grumbles underneath his breath, taking a long swallow of his Ponta. "No one wants to listen to that when they're trying to play tennis. This whole tournament is pointless, anyway." 

 

“Pointless?” Kintarou’s head cocks to the side, and he hops up onto the bench, propping his elbows up on his knees. “Why? Are they not letting you play anyone strong either?”

 

Ryouma shrugs. "Turns out the one person I wanted to play, I've already played before. And he already beat me, so whatever." His fingers tighten around his soda can until it crunches a little. "I've been training really hard, but there's no point." 

 

Kintarou’s eyes light up. “A revenge story! Cool! Ahh, I wish I had a rival like that! You have to say something _really cool_ when you beat him, okay? I can help you think of lines if you want, I read a _lot_ of manga.”

 

It's pretty clear that Kintarou is dumber than a sack of wet mice. Great. "I don't wanna play him anymore." 

 

Kintarou frowns. “But you have to beat him. The legendary Koshimae has to grab victory with his own teeth or whatever!”

 

Ryouma's stare is deadpan. "I don't wanna play him anymore," he repeats, and takes another long sip of his soda. "It doesn't look fun at all, and nothing I did worked last time, so whatever." 

 

Kintarou nods knowingly. “Did you try jumping _really high?_ ” he asks, dead serious. “Ah, that looks good. Gimme a sip.”

 

"What? No. On both counts," Ryouma flatly refuses, curling up protectively around his soda. "Do you even know how to play tennis?" 

 

“Sure!” Kintarou beams. “You hit the ball with the racquet, and then the other guy hits it back! I _love_ tennis!”

 

Ryouma wishes he was dead. "How do you ever win _anything_ ," he mutters. "You can't even figure out my name. You can't win if you just keep tennis as simple as that." 

 

“Sure I can! I always do!” Kintarou pulls his racquet, a handmade old wooden brandless contraption, off of his back. “Come on, play me right now! We can, uh, use the bench as a net! Just one point, it’ll be great!”

 

Ryouma glares at him, and downs the rest of his soda before tossing the can over into the trash. "Don't wanna." 

 

Kintarou lets out his breath in a huff, falling back onto the bench. “No one will play me,” he groans, looking up at the sky. “This is a million times worse than losing, I bet.”

 

"No, it isn't." Ryouma yanks his hat down, irritated. "I'd rather someone not want to play me and be afraid of me. Sounds like you've never lost, so you don't know what you're talking about." 

 

Kintarou laughs. “You’re right! But it sounds like losing just gives you another reason to fight, right? Not being able to play is the _worst_. I’d rather lose a hundred times as long as it was to someone really strong and cool like you!”

 

"…You don't even _know me_ ," Ryouma says, exasperated, for what feels like the millionth time. "You're so weird. Go play someone like Rikkai's Sanada, or _our_ captain, then you can talk to me about losing and see how it feels." 

 

“I met Rikkai’s Sanada! He’s a big gorilla, right?” Kintarou beams. “I heard that one time, this one guy took _six games_ off him! I bet he was huge!”

 

"He's a gorilla," Ryouma tiredly agrees. "And I think that was my captain. I took 5 games, though." _Too bad I still lost._

 

“ _Whoa_!” Kintarou manages to leap up onto the back of the bench, rocking back with the excitement of it all. “He told Shiraishi to keep me on a leash. I’ll beat him someday! Ahh, I bet you’re getting really good training out of practicing with your captain, right? He looks boring but Shiraishi says he’s one of the best in Europe!”

 

That sounds like some weird lovechild of Atobe and Tezuka, actually, and what with how much Kintarou usually seems to confuse things, Ryouma isn't surprised. "Atobe-sempai isn't my captain, but he's one of the best in Europe," Ryouma agrees. "And Tezuka-buchou isn't boring, and he's one of the best in Japan. They're both really good teachers." _Not that it's helping_ me _, but that's not their fault._ "Sanada isn't the problem, though. I could've beat him." That much he's sure of.

 

“I knew you were super strong!” Kintarou scuttles sideways a little, poking at Ryouma’s hat. “Is this a champion hat? Did you get it for beating someone amazing? I heard you were from Australia, did you meet any giraffes?”

 

Ryouma stares at him, protectively grabbing at his hat. "Leave it alone," he growls. "I'm not from Australia, I'm from _America_. I've never met a giraffe my entire life!" 

 

“Me neither!” Kintarou says, delighted. “Hey, I heard there was a guy on your team that can make a bear fall out of the sky. Did you ever play him?”

 

"What the…oh. You mean the Higuma Otoshi thing. A bear doesn't really fall out of the sky, it's just a name." Ryouma snorts, leaning back. "But I've played Fuji-sempai, yeah. He's going against your captain, I think."

 

Kintarou nods, grinning. “He’s gonna lose. Everyone loses against Shiraishi, he’s _awesome_. Well, not me, but our game got interrupted when that guy with all the tattoos came to talk to us.”

 

Ryouma has _no idea_ what Kintarou is talking about, but that's probably for the best. "Yeah, whatever. Fuji-sempai's good. He'll win. That's why I know you're not gonna get to play today." 

 

“Ha!” Kintarou leaps down to the ground, landing flat on both feet. “No way! Shiraishi is way cooler than your Captain Fuji!”

 

"He's not captain," Ryouma points out, long-suffering. "He's not even vice-captain. Do you guys even _have_ a vice-captain?"

 

Kintarou thinks for a minute, scratching his head. “I’m _pretty_ sure we do,” he says finally, “but I don’t think it’s me. I’ve definitely heard the word before, though.”

 

Ryouma thinks they probably just don't have one, just like Hyoutei. "Whatever. I'm still not gonna play you, even if you're vice-captain."

 

“Doubles is _lame_ , why do you wanna play doubles?” Kintarou complains. “Do you have to touch him all the time like Koharu-nee-chan and Yuuji-nee-chan?”

 

"First of all, gross," Ryouma says. "Second of all, I don't _wanna_ play doubles. I just have to because the captain says so."

 

“But I want to play you _now_ ,” Kintarou says, frustrated. “Wanna janken for it? If I win, we can play, and if you win, you get to serve first!”

 

"That means we're playing either way," Ryouma irritably says. "Why would I wanna janken if I can't get out of that? Didn't you _just say_ that you know we're not allowed to play until the matches?"

 

Kintarou groans as if he’s dying. “But you’re the most interesting guy I’ve met in Tokyo! You look so cool and you’re so strong and everyone from Shitenhouji is afraid of you, so you’ve _got_ to be interesting!”

 

"They're dumb," Ryouma mutters, yanking down the bill of his hat. "So are you. Don't make things so weird, for one thing." 

 

"Aa~hhh! What was even the point of that match? After Marui-sempai and Jackal-sempai lost, no one else stood a chance! I really wanted to play!"

 

Ryouma is pretty sure he hasn't been gone that long, but by the looks of it, he's wrong. That's all of Rikkai, striding out of the stadium and hardly looking worse for wear after facing Hyoutei in what is probably record time. He scrunches himself up into a ball, his hat pulled down as far as it can go. 

 

"Don't rub it in, Akaya," Jackal mutters, swatting at the back of Kirihara's head. "I'd like to see you go up against that serve."

 

Kirihara scowls. "I would've! I would've hit it back every time!" 

 

"Considering you can't even remember to post the lineup, I doubt the Captain is going to let you do much of anything anytime soon, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu chides. 

 

"That was just one time! That's also different than hitting back fast serves, I could do that, I _really_ can do that!" 

 

“Puri!” Niou chimes in, and tugs on a lock of Kirihara’s hair. 

 

“Jackal!” Sanada snaps, and fetches a blow to the back of Jackal’s head. “You can make fun of Akaya when you win your matches. _Not before!_ ”

 

Marui silently shifts his walking pattern to wind up on the other side of the entire group from Sanada. Nope, not today. 

 

“Judging by my calculations,” Yanagi says, “there is a 89.79 percent chance of victory at tomorrow’s finals match, assuming Shitenhouji wins their semifinals match.”

 

“We’re definitely going to win our match!” 

 

Kintarou’s loud voice makes every head in Rikkai swivel.

 

Ryouma wants to kill him. _I hate you so much_ is the look he swiftly delivers to Kintarou, because it's too late to get up and leave, and it's too late to just run. _Why did Tezuka-buchou have to respect my boundaries and not hunt me down like a dog?_

 

Yukimura, previously flanked by Rikkai's tallest and thusly hidden in the middle of the group, peers around Yanagi for a solid look. "Ah, it's Shitenhouji's rookie. Shiraishi had a lot to say about you."

 

"Is he any good?" Kirihara skeptically asks, shrugging his tennis bag higher up his shoulder. He's jittery, twitchy from not having a chance to play, and it's obvious. "Yanagi-sempai, if I played against him, what's the chance I'd win?"

 

Kirihara’s twitchiness and eagerness to play has nothing on Kintarou’s. “Zero! I’m definitely going to make you go back to Hokkaido!”

 

Yanagi’s smile is thin, and he leans slightly to the side, asking Yukimura, “Do you really want me to tell him?” Embedded in the words is the warning, _It’s not a great chance._

 

“You!” Kintarou points at Yukimura, and grabs his racquet. “Are you the one that played Koshimae? He’s gonna avenge you! Tell him, Koshimae!”

 

"It seems like Shitenhouji's rookies are really lacking on manners," Yagyuu says, pushing up his glasses with vague annoyance as he and Jackal both sidestep slightly in front of Yukimura. 

 

"Shut _up_ ," Ryouma hisses, grabbing for the back of Kintarou's jersey to drag him back down.

 

"Koshimae?" Yukimura echoes, perplexed for a moment before he looks around Jackal and it clicks. "Oh, you mean _Echizen._ You haven't had much of a chance to play in this tournament either, have you?"

 

Words kind of freeze up in his throat, and Ryouma hates that. Is this what the yips are really like? Is he going to end up like Kabaji on the court? _I already did once, apparently._ He swallows hard, and releases Kintarou in favor of turning partially away. "Doesn't matter to me."

 

"Like he'd be able to beat Yukimura-buchou, anyway," Kirihara scoffs, and moves to set his tennis bag down and get out his racquet. "Come on, I'll play both of you, right here and now--"

 

"Sanada," Yukimura tiredly says.

 

Kintarou doesn’t even get a chance to accept before Kirihara is summarily “disciplined” and pulled back. “I thought you learned your lesson about accepting challenges from random people on the street,” Sanada growls. “You want to break the rules of the reigning kings on the day you forgot to release the lineup? _Shameful!”_

 

He gives Ryouma a nod, deeper than he would an acquaintance. “Echizen. Tell your Captain we’re coming for him. He saw what running away does to his team.”

 

Apparently, Ryouma can't quite look at Sanada, either.

 

Kirihara's whimpers and protests aren't even enough to make him laugh, when they definitely would be entertaining enough usually. He _does_ like seeing assholes like that taken down a peg, but in this case… _everyone_ on Rikkai is scary now, apparently. He shrugs, shuffling backward, and scoops up his own bag from the bench. "Whatever."

 

_If Tezuka-buchou had been here, he would have beaten you when I couldn't have._

 

Ryouma's not sure if that's a good thought to have or not. 

 

"You can tell me that yourself, Sanada." 

 

The hand on his head isn't exactly warm, but it is strong, and Ryouma sags a little bit underneath the weight of it. Tezuka is at least easy to hide behind, and he slowly shifts back to do as much. 

 

"The fact that you classify 'recovering' as 'running away' is rather interesting to me, Sanada, considering the state of some of Rikkai's own team members," Tezuka lightly adds.

 

That brings about a sudden shift in the posture of _several_ Rikkai team members, a few of whom look more than ready to attempt immediate bodily harm on Tezuka (though Kirihara certainly would, Sanada believes, had he understood the comment). Sanada’s face is a mask of fury and disgust, and there’s a curious motion of his hand as if he’s attempting to draw a sword for a second. “ _Tezuka_ ,” he spits. “You had better not lose to Shitenhouji. We have a reckoning coming.”

 

“At least no one on Rikkai left the country for _tennis elbow_ ,” Niou says, hands shoved into his pockets in an oddly aggressive stance for him.

 

"Or sold out to a certain directorate to make it happen," Yagyuu idly adds. 

 

"Wait--hey! Did you just insult Yukimura-buchou?" Kirihara demands, the comments finally clicking in his head. "What the hell, fuck _off!"_

 

Jackal grabs the back of his jersey to keep him from lurching forward, though it obviously takes considerable effort on his own part not to just let Kirihara go.

 

Tezuka ignores all of it, and pointedly doesn't even look at Sanada. "Yukimura. Hopefully we'll meet up in Singles One." 

 

Yukimura's eyebrows raise slowly. "Hopefully." 

 

"Buchou, let's just _go_ ," Ryouma mumbles, grabbing at the back of Tezuka's jersey to pull him away. 

 

“Hold up!” Kintarou leaps off the bench, down in front of Tezuka. “You’re Koshimae’s captain, I remember! If you want to get to play the bumblebees, you have to play _me_ in Singles One first!”

 

Of course, it’s hard to make himself heard over the enraged muttering coming from Sanada.

 

Niou sidles up to Yukimura, giving him a look that very clearly offers services related to making sure Tezuka neither plays Singles One or is very happy about life tomorrow. “Puri.”

 

Yukimura offers Niou a wry smile, and reaches up to tug on his rat tail. "Don't worry about it. Come on, everyone, Marui was going to reveal a new mystery cake at my house. I could really use it right now, and _he_ needs to redeem his loss."  

 

Tezuka offers Rikkai a last, bored glance before stepping around Kintarou without batting an eye. "I'm not in Singles One, and you shouldn't be overly ambitious, anyway." 

 

Ryouma makes a face back at Rikkai in general (even as he's clinging to the back of Tezuka's jersey in earnest). It's a _lot_ harder to be intimidated by them when Tezuka's there, because _he_ doesn't seem to care at all. 

 

~

 

Expecting Atobe to deal with Ryouma at the actual tournament simply isn't going to happen, and Tezuka knows that. 

 

More annoying--the fact that Rikkai doesn't stick around to actually watch their match against Shitenhouji is just an insult, and that makes Tezuka set his teeth into a slow grind for the vast majority of the match. 

 

"Game, Shitenhouji's Shiraishi! 6 games to 1!" 

 

And it doesn't start off well, either.

 

Tezuka doesn't want to deal with Fuji right now. He's slumped over on the bench, drenched with sweat, shivering with a towel over his head, and Tezuka _doesn't_ want to deal with that. He at least doesn't have to stress about the state of Momoshiro and Kaidou's match, because Kaidou seems to have stepped up--marginally.

 

"Game, Seigaku's Momoshiro-Kaidou pair! 7 games to 5!"

 

"Good job, both of you," Tezuka quietly praises, with a weighted glance to Kaidou. 

 

The next match worries him to a degree, but--

 

"You've got this, Eiji," Oishi reassures the other boy. "You're better, you're faster."

 

Fortunately, he is. Kikumaru is a capable singles player in his own right, of course, even against the nonsense of Naniwa's Speed Star.

 

"Game, Seigaku's Kikumaru! 7 games to 5!" 

 

Ryouma doesn't look entirely thrilled to have to play doubles (or to play at all), but that doesn't matter so long as he wins, and fortunately--

 

"Game, Seigaku's Oishi-Echizen pair! 6 games to 4!"

 

In a way, Tezuka isn't sure if he's supposed to be relieved or not. 

 

The whole of the team wants to go out to celebrate, and he feels like he should, too, this was his promise to Oishi, to his team, but--something settles into a pit of his stomach, worrisome and making him nearly sick with dread. He quietly backs out of the idea, leaving Oishi to arrange any and all festivities that he deems fit with the excuse of needing to determine the lineup of the finals, and he ends up with Ryouma all but clinging to his arm instead, looking more tired and drained than Tezuka ever remembers seeing him. 

 

"Are you sure he's all right?" Oishi worriedly asks. "If he's not well enough for the finals on Friday…" 

 

"He'll be fine," Tezuka reassures him. "All the more reason for me not to attend dinner tonight. I'll make sure he's taken care of." 

 

**To: Atobe**

**Subject: Busy?**

**If not, can you send a car?**

 

It doesn't take long for said car to arrive, and Tezuka sort of drags the half-asleep kid along. Ryouma ends up passed out in his lap by the time they even end up at Atobe's, and he's in Tezuka's arms when he's let in, both tennis bags slung over his shoulders. Ryouma cracks his eyes open long enough to sullenly glare around at his surroundings, and Tezuka merely sighs. 

 

"I'm putting him to bed," he flatly informs his boyfriend upon arriving at his bedroom, not even bothering to knock when he sweeps in and plops Ryouma right down onto Atobe's bed. Ryouma makes a few decisively grouchy noises before burrowing himself the entire way underneath blankets and sheets and enough pillows to suffocate fifteen grown men. 

 

There’s little to protest, and Atobe probably wouldn’t feel like it anyway. He looks down at Ryouma, and tucks him in under a coverlet that probably cost more than every flight Ryouma’s taken put together. “How was Shitenhouji?” he asks, and it isn’t as loaded a question as it could be. He’s heard via every source he needs about the actual scores, and things could certainly be worse. Of course, the scores were rather _close_ , but… “Even if it isn’t your desired outcome, not getting to Singles One in the semifinals is certainly something to brag about.”

 

Ryouma makes a low growling noise, burrowing himself down deeper.

 

Tezuka fixes a very tired look upon Atobe before simply letting himself flop back into the nearest chair-that-probably-can-turn-into-a-chaise. "How much wine do you think you can convince your servants to hand over tonight?" he deadpans, not entirely joking. 

 

Atobe slowly raises an eyebrow. Then, without changing his expression, he flicks a switch in the bedside table.

 

The wine rack that slides out of the wall is nearly as long as the massive bed itself, and moves quietly on hydraulics. “It’s not the best selection,” he admits, “but there’s a credible representation of whites, reds, champagnes, rosés, and riesling. We’ll need to ring for Alexander if you want Canadian Ice-Wine, however.”

 

Tezuka is glad that he wasn't entirely joking, because now he's not joking at all. "What is _less_ likely to aggravate my headache?" he asks on a sigh. "I also need to admit something horrible to you, assuming you haven't already heard about it via the rumor mill." 

 

“Drink a glass of water between every glass of wine,” Atobe says immediately. “Your headache will go away fastest with the stronger wines, and I know you don’t always react favorably to reds...have you tried the Domaine Marcel Deiss 1994 Alsace? Your rehabilitation center was near there, was it not?” 

 

The viscous golden fluid is fragrant enough to make his own head spin slightly, and Atobe uncorks, then pours, handing over the glass before taking another for himself. “Sweeter than you’re used to, I’d wager,” he adds, raising his glass in a toast. “Sweet enough to make a delightful compliment to insulting a cancer patient, my dear Kunimitsu.”

 

"To his _face_ ," Tezuka groans, and his head throbs at the memory of it. He ignores the toast in favor of taking a careful sip, because he's fairly certain he needs something to dull everything sooner rather than later. "To _Sanada's_ face. He wanted to draw a nonexistent sword on me, I saw it. Rikkai is going to destroy us." 

 

Atobe gives him a consoling pat on the thigh, settling up crosslegged on the bed. “There, there. Maybe they’ll be so furious that they’ll get sloppy,” he suggests. “Ah, I would have given anything to see Sanada’s face.”

 

Tezuka briefly buries his face in one hand. "Even I have morals sometimes. Admittedly, _he_ started it--telling Echizen they were _coming for me_ , the lunatic," he mutters, taking another hurried sip of his wine. "And then saying that I abandoned the team, what else was I supposed to say if not fire back another insult? Of course, Yukimura didn't say a _word_." 

 

“Despicable of them, to claim the moral high ground,” Atobe agrees. “Honestly, you shouldn’t worry too much about it. They were always going to be taking you more seriously this time, after you nearly wiped the floor with them last time--I can’t even think of anyone who’s ever come that close to beating Sanada besides you. And myself, of course,” he says casually, though as far as he knows, Tezuka hasn’t heard about their little ‘run-in’ last week.

 

That earns Atobe a flat stare. "When did _you_ play him?" he asks, wracking his brain to try and think if he's just missed something. "And _why_ , if you didn't explicitly have to." 

 

“Because I never have,” Atobe explains, taking a sip and swishing it around in his mouth. Yes, definitely worth $12,000 a bottle. He does hope Tezuka is appreciating it. “And quite frankly, I was well aware that I wouldn’t be playing him this time. The only time Sanada has ever played Singles One is when Yukimura was indisposed. It was last week, when you were holed up with your team for those three days? I dropped by Rikkai.”

 

"…And?" Details. He does need details. Tezuka has never been intimidated by Sanada, but this is a different situation now. It's not even the fact that he insulted Rikkai's captain, though that certainly doesn't help. It's the fact that his ace in the hole is passed out on Atobe's bed after having hidden behind him all day because he's terrified of Yukimura. 

 

Atobe leans over, running his fingers gently through Ryouma’s hair. “He’s right. That fire serve is no fun at all to hit back.” His smile is small, but rather self-confident. “I was beating him. Yukimura called his dog back to heel before we could finish, though.”

 

 _That_ makes Tezuka relax slightly. He sags back into his chair, bringing his wine glass back to his lips. "Good. Then he's still as beatable as he always was. I'm sorry that Akutagawa fared so poorly against him today, by the way." 

 

Atobe sighs. “That was a genuine shame,” he admits, “and I feel awful that he’s been showing so ill lately anyway. I was hoping to put him up against that Kirihara, and I would have if I’d known their lineup. Have you ever seen him at his best, Kunimitsu? He’s excellent, took down Kabaji in two practice matches out of three.”

 

"I've heard. Don't worry, he'll have an opportunity to show well next year." His headache is starting to abate slightly, thank god. Tezuka isn't sure if it's the wine or Atobe, but he'll assume it's both for the time being. "Oishi is supposed to text me with Rikkai's lineup as soon as it's posted. I doubt they'll leave it up to Kirihara this time; they're out for our blood." He hesitates, frowning as he lowers his voice, "I _don't_ want to have Echizen play." 

 

“He’ll play.”

 

Atobe is sure of that much, at least, and there’s no hint of doubt in the words. “Honestly, I don’t think you could stop him. He’ll say a lot of things, but he’ll play when it comes down to it. He loves the game as much as you or I, maybe more.”

 

"Keigo, he's been _hiding behind me_ whenever Rikkai shows up. Worse, even, when Yukimura walks out onto the court--you saw Echizen's reaction to his match today," Tezuka argues. "Even if he goes out onto that court, he'll have the yips. He has them _right now_. My whole team does--I've never seen Fuji play like that before, and Fuji and Echizen usually feed off of one another." 

 

Atobe’s teeth worry at his lip, and he takes a larger sip. Finally, he clears the topic that he’s been so _good_ not to bring up; he _has_ been trying. “How did you get over yours?”

 

Tezuka stiffens, attempting to fight the reflexive urge to curl up behind his wine glass. "What are you talking about?" 

 

Atobe holds up his hands, backing down. “Nothing, my mistake. I just thought...hmm, perhaps you could fabricate a time when something similar happened to you,” he invents. “Ryouma has a toxic opinion that in order to be good one must never lose. There’s no one he admires more than you, Kunimitsu. You know that.”

 

Exhaling a slow breath, Tezuka draws one long leg up to his chest, dropping his chin down atop his knee. There's little point in lying to Atobe, especially when he's already obviously figured it out, but there's reflex and defensiveness and all of that and…ugh. "I stood up for Chitose's little sister." He glances up over his glasses. "Shishigaku still has something of a vendetta against him. While I was down in Kyushu, I ended up in the middle of it. I didn't want to tell you because I was fairly certain you'd start ordering hits like the yakuza." 

 

“Don’t be so crass,” Atobe says, waving one hand--which he then reaches down to squeeze Tezuka’s hand gently. “My family would never use something so crass as the yakuza, _please_. I should hope you’d have more faith in my discretion than that.” _Unless they hurt you. No one is allowed to do that._ “Tell Ryouma about it, when he wakes up. It could help.”

 

"…I'm just worried that it's too little, too late." Tezuka's fingers slowly curl within Atobe's. "If I end up putting him in Singles One, I have to make sure that we don't _get there_." 

 

“Then put him in Singles One, but Kunimitsu…” Atobe hesitates, and gives a small squeeze. “This might not sound like much coming from me,” he allows, “but you _do_ have the rest of the team to worry about. Which position are you playing? Singles Two, I assume?”

 

"I'm not sure," Tezuka admits, and he promptly downs the remainder of his wine when he has to think about _lineups_ for too long. "I don't want to make any decisions before I know what Rikkai is doing."

 

As if on cue, his phone buzzes, and Tezuka twists to pull it from his pocket. 

 

**From: Oishi**

**Subject: They posted it**

**Let me know ours ASAP!!**

 

**S3: Kirihara**

**D2: Yagyuu/Niou**

**S2: Marui**

**D1: Sanada/Yanagi**

**S1: Yukimura**

 

"Explain," Tezuka deadpans, passing his phone to Atobe.

 

Atobe takes a look at the list, then wordlessly fills up Tezuka’s glass, a little fuller this time. “Water first,” he reminds him, then stares down at the phone. “I can only _imagine_ this is some kind of punishment for Marui after he gave us that match. But putting himself in Singles One, in his condition?”

 

"It's a challenge," Tezuka bitterly replies. He doesn't _want_ water, but reaches begrudgingly for that glass first. He does need _some_ wits about him for this conversation. "A fucking taunt--'see if you can even get here through our weakest set-up yet.' Sorry." Apparently, he's reached the point of 'Rikkai inspires vulgarity.' He understands the reactions of every other team in Japan regarding them now. 

 

“For a weak setup, they’re certainly leading with the strongest doubles pairs possible,” Atobe says, frowning. “They can certainly afford to throw one or two singles games from this standpoint. Hmm.” He pulls out a sheet of paper, sketching out a rival S3/D2/S2/D1/S1. “How much do you hate rematches?”

 

"…A lot," Tezuka wearily admits. "But I don't have another doubles pair strong enough to go against Rikkai's best set. They're forcing me to use Oishi and Eiji as Doubles Two--and honestly, Oishi will never forgive me if I don't put him there. They're gunning for that top doubles spot regardless of our victory or not." 

 

“Then let them have it,” Atobe says, waving a hand. “Every man should be able to choose his own destiny, even if it will end rather dramatically. Hmm...are you still confident in Fuji after this recent string of meltdowns?”

 

"No, but…I'm _more_ confident against him against someone like Marui. He dislikes playing against serve and volley players, but as far as we've seen, he's been more than capable against him, and Marui hasn't proven himself defensive enough to deal with Fuji if he's kept at the baseline." It's time for the wine again. "I also promised Kaidou a singles slot. I think he can handle Kirihara."

 

Atobe nods, jotting down the notations with a fountain pen. “And yourself against Yukimura,” he muses, then taps the pen against the paper. “Echizen in doubles again? Who on earth else is on your team, I must be forgetting...right, either Inui or Momoshiro. There’s no way those two as a pair can handle Sanada and Yanagi, you _must_ let Ryouma play.”

 

Tezuka shakes his head. "I can't put him in doubles again. He'll think that I've completely lost confidence in him." While that isn't true, Tezuka doesn't like the idea of Ryouma in Singles One, either. He _does_ like the idea of denying Sanada any sort of rematch against him, but… "Why didn't you go to Seigaku," he tiredly asks. "You and I could have beaten Sanada and Yanagi in doubles." 

 

Atobe’s mouth quirks. “I probably shouldn’t be entirely aroused by that prospect. I’ll blame the wine if you will.”

 

"…Same," Tezuka admits, shoving down that little coil of heat in his belly that threatens to be far too distracting. "As it is, I think I'm going to have to play doubles with Inui."

 

“Or,” Atobe says, making a few quick notes, “since you’re absolutely rubbish as a doubles player, put yourself in singles and Fuji in doubles. You can beat Marui Bunta any day of the week, obviously, and he’s a decent enough doubles player, though I don’t know how he’ll fare with Inui.”

 

Tezuka frowns. "I just don't think anyone else is capable of facing Sanada. Assuming Kaidou wins, I'm not sure our Golden Pair is enough to beat Rikkai's…and even if I beat Marui, we'd still be going to Doubles Two, which we'd lose, and then…Singles One…" He trails off, suddenly sounding exhausted. "There's no _good_ combination." 

 

Atobe sighs, and leans back, taking another long drink. “That’s your problem,” he says, opening the top button of his silk shirt, laying back against the pillows. “You’ve got to stop thinking about it as if you can win. They’re the National Champions, Kunimitsu, and to call you the underdogs is being generous. Just….look for a good game. Christ, there’s no penalty to losing. Someone has to.”

 

"I know that. But…" Tezuka trails off, downs the rest of his wine glass in about two swallows, and sets it aside before slowly crawling into bed next to Atobe. "We've never made it this far. I didn't think we _could_ , no matter how many promises I made. To lose at this point…"

 

“You’ll still have all of your victories.” Atobe slides an arm around Tezuka’s shoulders, pulling him close and stroking his hair. “Besides, you might be able to pull it off. As you so astutely pointed out, at least one of their number isn’t exactly in fighting shape.”

 

Tezuka muffles a groan into Atobe's shoulder. "I'm _never_ going to live that down. If I lose, I'm the asshole that couldn't back it up, and if I win, I'm the _asshole that beat the kid with cancer._ " 

 

“It’s his own fault for playing,” Atobe says with a laugh. “He shouldn’t expect any special preferential treatment in the _National Finals_. Still, it’s definitely poor luck all around. Your opponent is supposed to _conceal_ those weaknesses, not flaunt them to make you feel worse.” He purses his lips, thinking. “I suppose he did _try_. The surgery made it a bit obvious.”

 

"I think he _was_ trying to conceal it," Tezuka tiredly says. "And still is. Which leads me to wonder exactly what's going on and how much of an ass I should feel like, which is already rather considerable." 

 

"It was still a sick burn, Tezuka-buchou," Ryouma sleepily mumbles from underneath his pile of blankets. "Really cool, especially against Sanada."

 

Tezuka is fairly certain that he's too tired, and possibly bordering on too tipsy to stop cuddling Atobe, even when Ryouma is apparently awake.

 

“Sanada deserves it,” Atobe agrees, and uncovers at least a smidgen of Ryouma’s head, relocating a pillow. “Ne, Sleeping Beauty?”

 

"He's weird," Ryouma agrees on a yawn, slowly scooting over to bury himself next to Atobe's side, even when he's pretty sure he's still mad at him. "And half the things he says aren't Japanese, pretty sure." 

 

“ _Thank_ you,” Atobe says, vindicated. “I have no idea what he’s talking about, most of the time. Incomprehensible--what the _hell_ is a taru-doru?” His other arm comes around Ryouma, squishing him close, something of comfort, something of apology.

 

"Antiquated conjugation of the verb 'tarumu'," Tezuka supplies, pushing his glasses off to make it easier to half-bury his face into Atobe's neck. "He thinks he's a samurai. Moron." 

 

"Weird," Ryouma repeats, curling himself into a ball within Atobe's hold. Apology accepted, more or less. He resigns himself to being grumpy for a few more days, but that's it. "Rikkai's captain beat Kabaji-sempai really easily. I remember how hard it was for Kawamura-sempai to even play against him…" He trails off, worry audible in his voice instead of the usual boredom and general disdain for everyone around him. "I've been training to play against Sanada, not…someone even better." 

 

Atobe couldn’t feel much better than this right now, basking in the way the two of them feel pressed up against him. It isn’t even precisely sexual; he just can’t remember the last time someone had been so trusting, so close to him. Well, except Jirou, but Jirou is like that with everyone (and it’s a large portion of the reason why Jirou has never been kicked off of the regulars). “Chaos theory,” he murmurs, squeezing them both a bit. “You might be Yukimura’s Achilles Heel. After all, he’s bound to underestimate you. His ego is out of control.”

 

"Coming from you," Tezuka and Ryouma say in unison. 

 

"He already beat me once, though," Ryouma adds, huffing as he buries his face firmly into Atobe's side. "Did _he_ even know who I was? Atobe-sempai, you smell good." 

 

“I told you this scent was good, Kunimitsu,” Atobe says, slightly smug. His fingers curl into Ryouma’s hair, petting him gently, stroking a thumb down the back of his neck. “He knew. That’s good, it means he’ll underestimate you. We want that.”

 

"Hopefully," Tezuka quietly says, "we won't even have to go to Singles One. We'll beat them before that." 

 

"…I still don't know if I can play him if we do," Ryouma mutters, annoyed with himself, _embarrassed_ at his inability to get over it. He shoves his face down into Atobe's chest even more. "I hate this. Atobe-sempai, you say Tezuka-buchou's name weird." 

 

"Quiet, Echizen."

 

"But he _does_." 

 

Atobe rolls his eyes. “That’s his _first name_ , Ryouma,” he laughs condescendingly. “The names are flipped around in Japan, remember? His name isn’t actually _Buchou_. That just means ‘Captain.’”

 

Tezuka strangles down a laugh.

 

Ryouma lifts his head, brow furrowed in irritation. "I know that, _Aho_ be-sempai," he flatly says. "And I know Tezuka-buchou's first name. I'm telling you that you're saying it wrong."

 

Atobe blinks. “What? No, I’m not. Tell him, Kunimitsu.”

 

"See! You did it again," Ryouma insists.

 

"It's really fine--" Tezuka attempts.

 

"No, he's saying it wrong. You don't pronounce the 'u' at the end of it," Ryouma tells him. "You know, like how you don't say the 'u' at the end of 'desu'? Though I guess you never use that…"

 

Shit. No, can’t admit defeat, it’s not like him at all. No, the only alternative is to use a pun, one that he has literally waited 15 years to use. “However,” he announces, feeling the growing dread all around him, “you pronounce the ‘u’ at the end when you speak…” he pauses for dramatic effect, “in _Keigo_.”

 

Once. He can only use this once in his life.

 

Tezuka's stifled, sputtering laughter is _barely_ muffled into Atobe's shoulder. He's drunk enough for this, yes.

 

"Lame, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma says, world-weary. "Really lame."

 

“Shut up, you just didn’t get it,” Atobe says, laughing himself along with Tezuka. The one who’s laughing is the one that matters most, anyway. “Why do you call me Atobe-sempai, anyway? I don’t go to your school.”

 

"Because it makes your penis hard," Ryouma says, unapologetically. 

 

"No, Echizen," Tezuka immediately chides, not lifting his face from Atobe's neck. "Not right now." 

 

"What? It's true." 

 

“Have to give him points for truthfulness,” Atobe admits. “Kunimitsu, do you want more wine?” Not that he’s trying to get him drunk or anything.

 

"If I drink more wine," Tezuka warns, "I am not going home tonight." 

 

"You're _still_ gonna say it wrong?"

 

"I like the way he says my name," Tezuka defensively mutters. 

 

“If he likes it, I’m going to keep saying it that way. And no, Kunimitsu, I am not sending you home drunk to your grandfather. He’d probably have me arrested.” He pauses a moment, then asks, “Ryouma, do you want to taste a sip of mine?”

 

"You are correct," Tezuka says, a little hazily. "He would _definitely_ have you arrested. I _could_ have more wine."

 

Ryouma eyeballs it skeptically. "Does it taste bad? I'm pretty sure all wine does." 

 

“It can take some getting used to,” Atobe admits, “but Reisling is a sweet wine.” Sweet _and_ strong, which is why he’s being so careful to make Tezuka drink water. Being hungover on the day of finals would be no good at all. _Thank god for teenage metabolisms._

 

"…I'll try _one_ sip," Ryouma begrudgingly allows. "Am I really going to have to play Singles One tomorrow?" 

 

"Not if I can help it," Tezuka mutters, curling up around his wine glass. "Tell Fuji to get over himself, too."

 

"Fuji-sempai's been weird lately. I think he freaked himself out when he faked losing to his brother and stuff. Tezuka-buchou, did you know he has pictures of you _all_ over his walls?"

 

"No, and I really didn't want to know." More wine, and quickly. 

 

It takes a moment for that to sink in through the wine, and when it does, Atobe could be a lot happier. He downs the rest of his glass, pours another, and hands it to Ryouma. “And how exactly was your trip to Fuji Shuusuke’s bedroom, Ryouma? Educational?”

 

"…It was all right," Ryouma reluctantly answers, tentatively peering down at the wine. Smells weird, pretty sure he prefers soda any day, but he slowly, warily takes a sip. He makes a face, and passes it back. "Fuji-sempai is weird."

 

Tezuka pauses, letting all of that process for a long moment before it finally clicks. He'd like to blame the alcohol, but he's aware of exactly how oblivious he is to most sexual things. "Wait. You and Fuji--"

 

"Gross, Tezuka-buchou, don't make me talk about it."

 

"I might kill him," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath. Atobe is one thing, and something he has accepted. _Fuji_ , however…no. No, not good.

 

“Ryouma, I thought you had better taste than that.” Ugh. _Ugh_. “I mean, surely you can tell there’s something...Kunimitsu, what’s a nice way to say ‘batshit crazy?’ Ah, yes, something rather _amiss_ going on with Fuji.”

 

Ryouma shrugs. "I dunno. He's fun and all that, he's just weird. I think his brother has a crush on him." 

 

Tezuka immediately holds his wine glass out to be topped off. "Keigo, please." 

 

“A-ah, water first,” Atobe instructs, grabbing a bottle of expensive purified water and tipping it into Tezuka’s mouth. “At least half the bottle. _Then_ you may have more wine. I won’t hear that I’m the reason you lost the finals match, Kunimitsu. And Ryouma, there’s a very good English saying, so stop me if you’ve heard this one.” He clears his throat, and switches to English. “Don’t put your dick in crazy.”

 

Ryouma's brow furrows, and he says in English: "But he put it in _me_ , does that count?"

 

“Yes. It counts. Honestly, Ryouma,” Atobe mutters, tugging on the boy’s hair, “I thought you had more instincts of self-preservation than that. If he hurt you…”

 

"He didn't hurt me," Ryouma defensively mutters, batting away Atobe's hand. "It was fun. I mean, he had a cigarette afterwards and that was gross, but otherwise, it was fine. I think he's bigger than you, by the way--"

 

"I can speak English, too, you know," Tezuka snaps in Japanese. "And I _don't_ want to hear about this." 

 

It’s for the best that they’re interrupted. Atobe isn’t sure how much more indignity he can stand. Fuji Shuusuke, for one thing, is s _o very dead_. “You’ll just have to measure again sometime,” he mutters a bit sulkily, then switches back to Japanese. “Kunimitsu, I’m just making sure he’s not hurt or anything.”

 

"I'm not hurt," Ryouma reiterates. 

 

"You have my permission to kill him," Tezuka says, finishing off his required amount of water and demandingly pushing his wine glass in Atobe's direction. " _After_ the finals." 

 

“This is the last one,” Atobe warns, and pours the glass generously nonetheless. “I do hope he’s some use to you in the finals. Otherwise, you should ship him back to wherever he came from--Chiba, was it?”

 

"This is the last time I have to deal with him," Tezuka groans, his head lolling a little against Atobe's shoulder as he cradles his wine glass. "He's awful."

 

"He _really_ likes Tezuka-buchou."

 

"Echizen, no."

 

"He has a cactus named after you. He introduced me."

 

Tezuka drinks more, and quickly. 

 

“Anyway,” Atobe says hurriedly, staying away from a topic that makes his blood pressure shoot through the roof in a less than desirable way, “Ryouma, how would you make the Seigaku lineup? I’m sure the captain values your opinion.”

 

Ryouma hesitates, peering over Atobe at Tezuka for a moment before slinking back down. "I dunno. I _do_ know that you have to let Oishi-sempai and Kikumaru-sempai play those assholes that they played before, though."

 

"I'm aware," Tezuka wearily says. "And they will. For better or for worse."

 

"I don't wanna play Sanada again." 

 

"All right." 

 

"And I don't wanna play Yukimura, either."

 

Briefly, Tezuka considers switching Kaidou and Ryouma's singles slots. Dear god, he _is_ drunk. "How long do you think it would take Kaidou to get the yips?" Tezuka seriously asks his boyfriend. 

 

“Hmm. Buoyed by the excitement of having your trust in him as next year’s captain? At least three minutes.” 

 

Atobe doesn’t bother trying to make it sound nice. It _isn’t_ nice. “Please remember, I’ve watched Rikkai win many times, up close and personal. It’s no fun, but it is predictable.”

 

"No, I'd rather hear it. You know I hate it when people sugarcoat." Tezuka takes a long sip of his wine. "Echizen, I need you in Singles One."

 

Ryouma scrunches himself into a ball. 

 

"We might not get there, but I need you there."

 

"Don't wanna." 

 

"Echizen. Do you think you're the only one that's scared?" 

 

"I'm not--"

 

"I've been scared of playing everyone since I first hurt my arm," Tezuka tiredly admits, "and even after recovering, I'm still scared. I still take painkillers for it before matches even when it doesn't hurt, just as a preventative measure. But I still play. You have to be able to do that, too, because no one else will." 

 

"…You could," Ryouma mutters. "You could play Singles One."

 

"I have to play Doubles One. Inui is going to fall on his face if I let him play with anyone else, because Yanagi is going to be staring back at him _again_." 

 

"I don't like Rikkai," Ryouma settles upon. 

 

"Well, neither do I."

 

"They aren't playing tennis. They're being _assholes_." 

 

"More or less," Tezuka agrees, and finishes off his wine _far_ too quickly. Whoo. Yes. He's lightheaded now. 

 

“So be an asshole back.” Atobe grins, and pokes Tezuka in the shoulder. “You’ve already started, right? God, you two--do you only want easy victories now? It’s only a good win if there’s something to truly bring down. Be grateful for the intimidating villain you’ve been given!”

 

"We lost the Kantou to them, though," Ryouma points out. "Kind of badly."

 

Tezuka gives Atobe a put-out stare. "The sick kid is _never_ a good villain." 

 

"I dunno, Yukimura is still pretty scary."

 

"Echizen. I'm proving a point here."

 

“Ahn, you’ve cast yourself as the villains, then.” Atobe raises an eyebrow, and polishes off his own glass of wine--yes, that’s enough, judging from how a couple drops spill. “You might as well be convincing about it, then. Aren’t the villains supposed to be confident? We shall crush them into oblivion, etcetera?”

 

"We shall crush them in the fields, we shall crush them in the streets," Tezuka begins.

 

"Didn't Sanada say something like that?" 

 

"Close enough, it's all the same when you're roleplaying being a samurai all the time." Tezuka twists around, burying his face back into Atobe's neck. "You _do_ smell good. Echizen, I'm not letting you play Singles One tomorrow."

 

"…Then what am I playing?"

 

"No. No, you'll be in the slot. Just…not gonna let you play." 

 

“Yes, good. Swear your vengeance, it’s...good.” Atobe _really_ likes it, actually, and stretches out, getting one arm around each of them. “You should both smell me more. Apparently, I smell fantastic. I think that’s better than fretting over lineups and samurai.”

 

That's probably true. Burying his face into Atobe's skin and curling up with him _does_ sound better than fretting…and Ryouma doesn't look nearly as shaken up, besides. He's sort of made a nest, burrowing down against Atobe's side. 

 

"You have to come tomorrow," Tezuka murmurs into Atobe's ear. "And stick around, no matter what." 

 

“I’ll be there. For both of you.” The words are egalitarian, but the way Atobe turns his head, meeting Tezuka for a long, slow kiss made delightfully lingering by the wine, belies the truth. “Until the end.”

 


	21. Eiji & Oishi

Eiji has the best doubles partner in the world, he’s pretty sure. It’s honestly a pleasure to watch him, which makes not actually playing doubles with him for once a bearable experience instead of the uncomfortable upsetting torture he’d thought it would be. Oishi moves perfectly, of course, but that’s not what’s so interesting to watch. Eiji watches his eyes, watches the way they glaze slightly over, mapping out the entire court without consciously realizing what he’s doing, and moving seamlessly, effortlessly into the space he needs to fill. He does it so well that Echizen even manages to react in time, slowly coming to trust Oishi and letting him have the balls that fall naturally within his domain.

 

And why shouldn’t he? Oishi is the best doubles player, after all. He can play with anyone, including high-strung bratty singles players that have never been able to work with someone else.

 

It’s how they got together in the first place.

 

Maybe that’s what makes Eiji a little more jittery, a little more on edge than usual after the celebratory dinner. Sukiyaki is good (he eats more than his fill), and there’s nothing forced or feigned about the way he congratulates Oishi or Echizen, not when they’re both his beloved friends and have done _so_ well for Seigaku.

 

It’s only later, when almost everyone has cleared out, that he finally decides to say something. “Hey, Oishi? Walk me home? They’re changing the lights on your street and you’d be going home in the dark otherwise, so come the long way.”

 

 _How long did it take you to think of that excuse_ is what Oishi immediately, wryly thinks, but he nods all the same. Eiji is a creature of habit if nothing else, and being able to tell when he's got something on his mind is important. 

 

Fortunately, Oishi's been doing that for a few years now. 

 

"I wasn't aware that I was afraid of the dark now," he gently teases, and shoulders his bag, sending a nod off to the last lingering members--Momoshiro and Kaidou mostly, scrabbling over the last bits of some eating competition. "I can't stay over tonight, if that's what you're planning for." 

 

Eiji weaves sideways, knocking his shoulder against Oishi’s. “Hmm, you sure do seem to have something perverted on your mind,” he teases. “Wouldn’t Tezuka be mad if we showed up to the finals all tired?”

 

" _Eiji_ ," is the immediate hiss underneath Oishi's breath, and he flits a glance briefly around before glowering over at his partner. "That's not what I meant. I just meant--in _general_ , I can't stay over. But," he adds begrudgingly, "Tezuka _would_ be mad. Probably at you." That should put an end to that. 

 

The smile fades into a shiver at the idea of Tezuka’s cold, soulless eyes. That’s no good. “Good thing I don’t have anything in mind, then.” He steers Oishi down the side street that leads to his house eventually, hopping up to touch a low-hanging bit of scaffolding. There’s no one around at this time of night, even in Tokyo. A woman comes out to sort her recyclables, then goes back inside. A man turns a corner with his little yapping dog, then turns another and disappears. There’s a Metro line that could get him a lot closer to home, but the walk isn’t bad, and Oishi would be taking a train anyway. “You were soooo good in doubles today. Number one doubles player.”

 

"Eh? No way," Oishi groans, shaking his head in an attempt to get rid of the memory. Echizen is a _chore_ , and while he has no inclination to complain to the kid's face… "I still have a headache. It's like I'm trying to cover for three people, and three very _unorganized_ people at that. Echizen is so used to not having to worry about anyone on the court that he's just…ugh, I thought Momo had taught him a few things, but I guess not." 

 

“But you played with him, and no one else could do that. That’s why you’re the best.” Eiji’s smile isn’t exactly false, but he might be adding a little extra enthusiasm to it. “I mean, you’re kind of like….the best doubles teacher, right? You turned me into a good doubles player when I was a selfish first-year, and now you’re doing it for him.”

 

"It's really not the same," Oishi sighs. "Echizen isn't _ever_ going to be that good at doubles, I think. I mean, he could if he really worked at it, but I don't really want to sit around and teach him…ah, does that sound horrible? It's just really stressful playing with him."

 

“You were really good at it, though.” Eiji hops up onto the curb, toe-heeling the length of it, glad it gives him an excuse to look down at his feet instead of at Oishi. “And I mean...you finished training me, right? So you’re looking for a new protege.” 

 

Maybe Oishi will be relieved that he’s figured it out for himself. Maybe he’s been trying to get out for a while, but hadn’t known what to say, or was trying to protect Eiji’s feelings. It’s better for everyone if Eiji brings it up now, definitely.

 

"Huh?" Oishi slowly comes to a stop, blinking over at the other boy in open, honest confusion. "Eiji, what are you talking about? I never wanted another… _protege._ I never considered you that, either. I always just thought of you as my partner."  His head tilts, brow furrowing. "Did you really think I _wanted_ to play with Echizen? I would have rather played with you, any day of the week." 

 

Eiji’s smile this time _is_ forced, and he folds his hands behind his head, looking up at what he can see of the sky, occluded by pollution and clouds. “Eh, it’s not like I said you couldn’t play with me or anything,” he points out. “Not like you didn’t have a choice. Come on, I’m trying to be mature. You’re ruining it.”

 

"…Tezuka was the one that wanted me to play with Echizen, so that he'd have the experience--not because I didn't want…Eiji, _you_ needed the experience in singles, too, so it's fine," Oishi insists, trying not to start worrying at his lower lip. "For the finals, I definitely want to play with you. Is that okay? Unless you don't want to play with me now." 

 

“I don’t want to play with you just because you have no other choice.” Eiji jams his hands in his pockets, then sits down on the curb, tucking his knees up against his chest. Three vacant taxis drive by as the light changes, then carry on, leaving them alone again. “Dunno why you would say I need experience in singles if you really want to stay my partner, though. _You_ don’t have experience in singles. It just makes it sound like you’re trying to tell me goodbye gently.”

 

"That's…" Oishi trails off for a moment, at a loss, and slowly sinks down, sitting next to Eiji. "That's not it at all," he quietly says, setting his bag down at his feet. "Eiji, you're great in both singles and doubles. You know that. I'm nothing special in singles, and that's why I've never wanted to play it. You should, because you're really great, and the other thing is…" He hesitates, then heaves a sigh, his expression wry. "I really didn't want to tell you this, but I guess it's okay now. My wrist was acting up still, and that's why I didn't want to play in a match with you. I didn't want to be the one to drag you down, or the one that was going to kill our ranking. We're so close to being the number one in Japan, you know?" 

 

Eiji takes a long minute to turn that over in his mind. Then, very carefully, he draws back a fist and punches Oishi in the shoulder. “You idiot! You’re the one who told me I should be in doubles, Oishi! You got me addicted to it! Are you just testing me to see if I’d really prefer singles after all, or if I’ll beg you to come back? We won’t _be_ number one if we haven’t played together in forever!”

 

"Don't hit me, I need that arm!" Oishi protests, scooting away. "I wasn't trying to test you! I was just trying to make sure that you got to do something while I was healing up! Look, we'll still be number one--we're the Golden Pair, aren't we?" He reaches out and swats Eiji on the back of the head. "It's better this way, our ranking is still great and we're still prepared for the finals." 

 

Eiji ducks too late, and comes up scowling, rubbing at the back of his head. “You always say I should take time and think more about what people really mean,” he complains. “Then when I try it you say I’m thinking too much and that nothing is happening at all. Make up your mind!”

 

"There's a time and a _place_ for thinking about things that much," Oishi patiently replies. "Right now, you're over thinking it all. I've already explained it to you, so just listen to what I'm saying. I'd rather play doubles with you than anyone else in the world." 

 

Hearing it, especially hearing it a few times, goes a hell of a long way towards mollifying Eiji. He lets out a huge breath, then stretches out his arms when he gets back up to his feet. “Okay, message received! But you’re gonna have to be a lot more clear about when is a time and place for it, because you were _definitely_ acting weird, and it’s the first time you haven’t played doubles with me in years.” He gives Oishi a sly look, and adds, “And I don’t know how much you were teaching him, anyway. There’s a lot of _doubles partner_ stuff that I don’t think you should teach a kid like that.”

 

Oishi, for his part, looks nothing short of horrified. " _Eiji!_ This is Echizen we're talking about, why would I-- _how_ could I ever do that?" He hauls himself to his feet, bag in tow. "I'm sorry for acting weird, but don't make jokes like that. You've been spending way too much time around Fuji if you think that's funny!" 

 

“Mm, I spend time with the people that make time for me. Not my fault you’ve been busy.” He makes a face, starting towards his house again. “You wanna hear something gross, though?”

 

It's not even worth attempting to make a rebuttal towards the former part of that, so Oishi just sighs, rolling his eyes skyward and falling into stride next to Eiji. "I usually don't, but you can tell me anyway." 

 

“Fuji did Echizen against the Tezuka wall.”

 

Oishi gags reflexively. " _Eiji_ , warn me next time," he pleads, shutting his eyes briefly to try and get control of his stomach. Gross, gross, _gross._ "What is _wrong_ with him? Is Echizen okay? Is _Taka-san_ okay? Does he know about this?" Tezuka is never going to know about this. 

 

“Mm, Fuji’s being bad. I think he wants Taka-san to break up with him.” Eiji sighs. “I don’t know how he gets these weird ideas. I mean, he thinks Taka-san is too nice for him, and, I mean, I guess that’s true, but why wouldn’t you just be glad you got something really good instead of trying to mess it up?” He shrugs. “According to him, Echizen’s been sleeping with a lot of guys lately on other teams and stuff. Weird, right? He’s supposed to be our _baby_.”

 

"He _is_ our baby," Oishi says, trying desperately not to think about Echizen sleeping with…well, _anyone_. He's too young, too immature, too much of a brat that still clings to the back of Tezuka's jersey…gross, gross, gross. Maybe Tezuka _does_ need to know about this. "Taka-san _is_ too nice for him," he eventually agrees, trying to take his mind off of Echizen sleeping around, ugh. "But…Fuji _has_ been more manageable since they started dating. I've never exactly seen Fuji be cruel to him, but that kind of mindset is getting there." 

 

“Fuji thinks Taka-san is stupid.” Eiji rounds the last corner to his house, relieved that most of the lights are already off inside. That’s just less he has to deal with. “I’m pretty sure Taka-san’s a lot smarter than Fuji thinks. He also thinks Taka-san is soooo innocent, you know? How many innocent guys would date Fuji, though?”

 

"Fair enough," Oishi agrees, sighing tiredly. "But Fuji is good at faking it. I mean, it's hard not to get a sort of creeped out vibe from him on most days, but who knows?" He bites his lip, thinking as he walks. "Even still, he's good for Fuji, I think, and if Fuji pulls a stunt like this before finals, it's not going to be good. Have you said something to him?" 

 

“I told him he’d be a dumbass to let Taka-san go,” Eiji says, tugging on Oishi’s sleeve to take him around the back way. “I think they need to talk. Also, if they talk it out and they get happier, maybe he’ll leave poor Echizen alone. It’s _weird_ , Oishi!”

 

"It's really weird, but…" Of course, it's Eiji that always wants to meddle in this sort of thing, and while Oishi is worried about Echizen, it's Fuji that always makes him wary. "Fuji isn't really the talking type," he points out. "I mean, he's the oversharing type, but not about his relationships, just his imagined ones. What do you want to do, lock them in a room or something?" 

 

“Great idea! We can use your house, though,” Eiji muses. “My house has thinner walls.” He pats his pockets, realizes he’s forgotten his key, and shrugs. “Gimme a boost up to my window, I’ll pull you up.”

 

"That was a _joke_ , Eiji. I'm definitely not letting them talk at my house," Oishi protests, and frowns at him. "Also, I just told you I couldn't stay the night." 

 

Eiji’s face falls. “Oh. I didn’t think you meant you couldn’t come up at _all_. Is your dad mad at you or something? Did he find your porn?”

 

" _Eiji_." _I don't have that much porn_ is on the tip of Oishi's tongue, but he decides not to give Eiji any more ammunition. "…I can stay for a little while." 

 

“Yay!” Eiji doesn’t really need a boost all that much. He climbs up Oishi without much consent, standing on his shoulders and grabbing the bottom ledge. In a moment, the light in his room clicks on, and he’s back, hanging down by his knees and offering dangling hands. “Just like last time.” He knows his smile is cute upside down.

 

Eiji honestly has no right to be that cute. 

 

Oishi's apprehensions die in an instant, and he sighs, reaching up to take Eiji's hands with a smile. "But not _too_ long," he warns, jumping up to use the side of the house as leverage. With Eiji's pull, he's up in an instant, and he slides down to the floor. "Finals tomorrow, and _then_ I can stay over for as long as you want."

 

“Sure. And we’ll have lots of reasons to celebrate then, anyway.” Eiji shuts the window, then hops onto his bed cross-legged. “Oi, when you said you could stay for a little while...how long is a little while? I don’t want you to get in trouble.” Oishi always gets mad at _him_ whenever he gets in trouble. No fun. Plus, his parents are painfully strict.

 

"…Long enough," Oishi hedges, not sure how much he should push his luck, and not really wanting to, besides--but it's _Eiji_ , and apparently, he's been upset. He climbs to his feet, plopping himself down onto the bed next to him. "Maybe long enough to really decide what to do about Fuji, and for me to apologize again for upsetting you." 

 

Oishi is sitting close, and Oishi isn’t secretly mad at him or bored with him. Immediately, Eiji goes into snuggle mode, leaning sideways to lean on him, rubbing the flat of his cheek against Oishi’s shoulder. “Eh, you don’t have to apologize, I learned my lesson about not thinking too much. And we’ll just lock Fuji and Taka in a room, problem solved.”

 

Oishi strangles a long-suffering noise in this throat at that, but loops an arm around Eiji's waist all the same, tugging him closer. "I _don't_ think that's going to really work," he mutters, turning his head to press his face into Eiji's hair. "Because I'm pretty sure Fuji can pick locks."

 

“I’d like to see him pick a dresser shoved in front of the door. Don’t worry about it, they’ll figure it out eventually. Fuji just likes to run away and be slippery if you let him.” Eiji turns his head, giving the tip of Oishi’s nose a tiny bite. “Does my hair smell good?”

 

A gentle flick to the tip of Eiji's nose follows that. "No biting. You know it does. Are you sure we should be meddling in their business at all? I know Fuji's your friend, but it might be better just to let him break up with Taka-san. Then I won't have nightmares about what they could possibly be doing together." 

 

“You said yourself Fuji’s calmer with Taka-san around. You want to release him on the wide world? Especially when he’s started messing with Echizen?” Eiji’s nose crinkles. “I can lick if you don’t want me to bite.” The suggestion could be _more_ subtle, but it could be innocent, too. Maybe to someone who didn’t know him.

 

"…I'd like to think that Echizen is smart enough to stay away from him at the end of the day." He is, probably, but Echizen also doesn't know fear, and that's no good. Oishi gives Eiji's nose another light tap. "If you want to lock them in a room together, _you're_ arranging it, and not at my house. You also know that licking is better than biting, but…" _Time limits._ _Finals tomorrow._ One of these days, he'll learn not to stare at a clock and fret.

 

“Sure, I’ll be in charge of it,” Eiji agrees cheerfully. Then he rearranges himself, giving up pretense and straddling Oishi’s lap, one knee on the bed on either side of his hips. “Anything else you want me to be in charge of?”

 

"Eiji--" That's the last bit of protest Oishi can muster, truth be told, because he's _missed_ the other boy, especially over the past couple of weeks. Prior to that was bad, too, when Tezuka was gone and there was more time for the team that needed to be had than time for just _Eiji_ , and…

 

Oishi exhales a slow breath, briefly shuts his eyes, and gives into the urge to just curl his hands around Eiji's hips and tug him close. "Everything," he admits, deciding that he's fine with being scolded if it means he gets to spend more time here. 

 

There’s a surge of relief, of tension releasing that Eiji hadn’t known he’d been carrying when he hears that. He lurches forward, grabbing Oishi’s face in his hands, kissing him hard, open-mouthed and wet, a little frantic. _Missed you,_ he wants to say, and _I thought you didn’t want this anymore, didn’t like me anymore, you big idiot._

 

It’s never been so much of a relief to kiss Oishi, not since the first day he’d done it, when he wasn’t sure if Oishi would kiss him back or punch him in the face or just stammer a lot and say it would be for the best if they pretended it never happened. Things are different now--Eiji’s hands in Oishi’s hair are possessive, because Oishi, gentle, handsome, kind, smart Oishi, belongs to _him_ , even if he’s still a big idiot. “Oishi,” he breathes. “Hmm, I was going to say we could just make out and not get you in trouble, but...nn, I missed you a _lot_ , you know?”

 

A sideways glance to the clock is the last thing Oishi can manage before he flops back onto an elbow, grabbing at Eiji's hair with his other hand. "Already in trouble," he breathlessly admits, smile wry, and he lurches up to kiss Eiji back again, the tension in his own shoulders dissolving in a moment. It feels good to just have a moment alone with Eiji again, to kiss him and grab at him and be grabbed at. "But it's fine. They'll think it's tennis, and blame Tezuka, not you." For once, they have that saving grace, and Oishi secretly thinks that Tezuka owes him a little. 

 

“Good, Tezuka can take it, and he owes you a _lot_ for dumping the team on you.” Eiji pauses, then adds, “Even if you’re a better captain.” Then he turns his head, sucking at a spot under Oishi’s ear, moving down his neck, not staying in the same place for too long, knowing better than to leave marks. “Nn, you can’t let me miss you so much,” he chides. “I’m gonna forget to be good.” He’s already starting to forget, helped quickly along by the fact that he doesn’t care all that much, not when he’s getting hard under his stretchy shorts.

 

"No marks," Oishi hurriedly insists underneath his breath, a habit that he can't really break. He's sure that Eiji knows better, but the _problem_ is that he always kind of _wants_ Eiji to leave marks. _He's_ the one that can't be trusted. With that, Oishi gives up entirely, flopping back with a long huff of breath, and sinks one hand into Eiji's hair, the other dragging down his back to end up curling around the curve of his ass. "Let's be fair--you're never--ah-- _that_ good--"

 

Eiji’s laugh is breathy and eager. Not having to be the one _pushing_ for once is nice. He doesn’t mind it, but it’s nice this way all the same, wriggling in Oishi’s hands, trying to keep quiet, knowing he’s at least better at _that_ part than Oishi is. “For someone who’s so bad, you sure want me a lot,” he teases, and sucks on Oishi’s shoulder, biting where he can at least cover it up with a shirt easily enough. “Nn, you have to tell me now.” They’ve been together long enough that Oishi knows his speech patterns, knows what he means when he says just that much.

 

The hand in Eiji's hair comes to his own mouth instead, stifling the stupid, over-eager groan that wants to escape when Eiji wiggles against him like that. His other hand's fingers knead into the curve of Eiji's ass, dragging down the back of one of his thighs. Oishi doesn't _like_ having to say it. Sure, it's just Eiji that's hearing it, but it still lights up a flush to his cheeks, and makes his voice catch up in his throat. "You can put it in." And then, to hurriedly, breathlessly clarify: "Just--not like _last time_." Where he ended up feeling like he was hit by a train the next day, and that just wasn't good for anyone involved. 

 

Eiji’s cock throbs at the words, whispered and hungry and genuine. “It’s gonna be so much better than last time,” he promises, kissing Oishi’s cheek and forehead and lips again, then raising his weight up onto his hands to better position himself. 

 

Oishi doesn’t take pity on him, as a rule. Oishi doesn’t feel bad and ask for things he doesn’t want, and he doesn’t put up with things he doesn’t like if he doesn’t have to. That’s one of the things Eiji loves about sex with Oishi--he _knows_ when he’s doing something wrong, which makes it easy to learn exactly what Oishi likes, and easier to give it to him. “You want me to do it slower, or gentler, or both?” Probably they should actually take their pants off this time, too. Last time had started real fast. This time, he works a hand down the front of Oishi’s sweatpants, making sure he gets nice and hard, finding him already pretty close to perfect, thick and hot and heavy against his hand. “Mm, he wants to have a lot of fun tonight, I think.”

 

Oishi huffs out a breath, shutting his eyes again briefly to try and get a handle on the fuzziness that his brain is quickly becoming. Eiji always does that to him, but with sex, it's even worse (better), especially when he can feel Eiji's own cock pressing against his thigh. "Slower--at least, at first," he clarifies, a shiver raking down his spine when his hips cant up into Eiji's hand thoughtlessly. He squirms a little, his hands grabbing at Eiji's back, curling into his shirt, tugging. "And with everything off," he adds in a mutter, thinking about the _mess_ that ended up making last time. It was fun at the time, but afterwards, not so much. "Is your door locked?" 

 

"Sure,” Eiji says, then pauses, letting out a long sigh. “I don’t know,” he admits, and gets off long enough to check--nope, wasn’t locked, and he flips the deadbolt with a chagrined little shrug. “Is now.” 

 

It’s probably for the best that they had to separate for a second, since it gives him time to catch his breath, and makes it easier to strip off his clothes, shimmying out of both sets of shorts along with his shirt. There’s no ounce of hesitation or shyness--how could there be, when it’s Oishi? He grabs Oishi’s pants by the waistband, tugging them off along with his shirt while he’s still standing. “You,” he says, climbing back on top now that there’s nothing but skin between them, his own burning hot against Oishi’s cooler limbs, “said slower. Oishi wants it nice and hard tonight, yeah?” Just saying the words makes him ache, and he can feel his cock starting to drip, standing up almost against his stomach as he settles onto his knees between Oishi’s spread legs.

 

The words have a similar effect on Oishi, and he has to reach down, wrapping his fingers around the base of his own cock, squeezing to keep himself in check when his breath catches and his cock throbs, dripping onto his own stomach. "Just like that," he rasps, grabbing at Eiji with his other hand, hauling him down to kiss him hard, needy, tasting the sharp, lingering mint of Eiji's gum and feeling slick sweat underneath his fingers when they drag down the back of Eiji's neck. His thighs squeeze around Eiji's hips, eager. "I've missed you too, Eiji." 

 

There’s a fierce fire that kindles in Eiji’s chest every time Oishi says something like that. It’s so _easy_ for them to fall into the trap of counting on each other--and it is a trap. It’s dependable, and it’s safe, and they love each other an awful lot, but sometimes they forget it’s been a long time since the words, the actions. It’s been three weeks since they’ve been hard together, more than a month since they’ve been naked together, and Eiji’s hard enough for every minute they’ve been apart. 

 

Eiji drags a hand down Oishi’s chest, feeling the smooth muscles laced over his heartbeat, steady and strong. It draws down to the growing puddle on his belly, dipping a thumb into it and making a slick trail across his abdomen. It would be so easy--they’d both be slippery-wet in a second, and they’re both so hard, and the idea of grinding down frantically against Oishi until that nagging, itching ache in his balls goes away is a tempting one. 

 

Then he remembers how Oishi had sounded, breathing, _You can put it in_. Yeah, that’s worth it, he guesses. He almost just shoves in at the thought, but no, no, that’s really not good and they _know_ that, that’s for stupid beginners and Fuji had smacked him upside the head last time he’d admitted to trying it that way. 

 

The bottle Fuji had given him with a sly smile is a lot more empty than it had been the last time they’d used it. “I’ve been thinking about Oishi-buchou a _lot_ ,” Eiji admits, and slicks himself up before sliding forward to nestle between Oishi’s thighs. “You’re hot when you’re Captainy. Nn, when’s the last time you played with it, or do you want me to use my hand?”

 

 _Don't forget the condom, Eiji,_ is on the tip of his tongue, but Oishi bites it down in spite of all common sense that screams otherwise. God, he's hard. Eiji feels good between his legs like that, and it's stupid, but being called _Oishi-buchou_ makes his cock even harder, bringing him to swallow hard and sink a hand into the bedsheets as some desperate preventative measure from just coming already. 

 

He also might just really, _really_ want to feel Eiji in him--for real, with nothing in the way, because when was the last time that happened?

 

"Just put it in." He's _not_ going to answer that question, he's not, because Eiji will tease him later, but it's been so long since they've been together like this that it shouldn't be a surprise that he's been taking care of it _himself_ , right? Oishi grabs at him with arms and legs alike, hauling him closer. "Just--slower, remember? It's always good that way." 

 

Eiji nods, intent and serious as he can be when Oishi is grabbing at him, when Oishi has so much want in his eyes. “Slow at first, I remember.” He grins, and even if Oishi says to just put it in, he circles a finger around Oishi’s hole, feeling it suck at him, testing and--yes, Oishi’s _definitely_ not that out of practice. “Try to warn me if you’re gonna be noisy.”

 

Then he catches sight of Oishi’s face, and his heart hurts for a second. He’s not sure if it’s supposed to do that just from seeing a face, but it’s only ever Oishi’s face, so that’s all right. He leans up, kissing Oishi with what is supposed to be passion and ends up as something sweeter, something more lingering.

 

He pulls back, and almost says something, but gives a little smile instead. They don’t need to talk right now. It’s slow, and gentler than Oishi probably needs when he slides in, the first initial push as easy, as smooth as he can make it without whimpering at how tight and hot and _good_ it feels to finally be inside again where he belongs.

 

Oishi is _perfect_ , he thinks, or maybe says aloud.

 

Oishi would like to tell Eiji that he's not _that_ noisy, that he's gotten better at keeping his voice down when they do this, but that would defeat the purpose and make it way harder to actually shut up when Eiji is _in him_ , hot and hard and throbbing and _perfect_. 

 

" _Eiji--_ " That's muffled, thankfully, into Eiji's shoulder when Oishi digs his fingers into his back and arches up, shoving his face into the crook of his neck, his thighs squeezing tight about his waist when he squirms down with a ragged, broken noise leaving his throat. That tension lasts a moment more, but then it leaves him feeling boneless, thankfully, _gratefully_ full, and Oishi shudders, his head flopping back down onto the bed. "Good," he mumbles, smoothing a hand down Eiji's back, sort of petting him as much as he is encouraging him. "Just like that--" 

 

Eiji hasn’t been with too many people--just Oishi, and Fuji, and a girl once when he knew he loved Oishi but was hungry for validation that he wasn’t actually a homo--but he knows implicitly that no one is better at this than Oishi. Every part of him, from his strong, trembling thighs to the arch of his back, from the taste of his skin to the rasp of his voice, is perfect. He slides in slowly, trying to be mindful, but no, that time is over now.

 

He doesn’t have to ask. That’s the beauty of being together as long as they have, one of a long line of amazing things about it. Eiji knows when it’s time, can feel it in the shuddering, twitching release of Oishi relaxing around his cock, and pulls almost entirely out only to slide back in harder with a soft slap of his balls against Oishi’s ass. There aren’t enough kisses, aren’t _ever_ enough kisses, and he steals them again and again, sucking and biting at Oishi’s lip, losing control a little more with every sound he wrings out of Oishi’s perfect throat with each thrust. “Nice and hard,” he whispers, all too conscious that he has a sister asleep just one room over. “The way we like it, yeah?”

 

The harder Eiji shoves into him, the harder it is to keep his voice down. His next whimper cracks, breaks, and Oishi is grateful, at least, that the sound is muffled in Eiji's mouth, even when those kisses make it harder for him to catch his breath. 

 

His cock aches, and his body squeezes tight, his hands clawing down Eiji's back, coming to grab at his ass and squeeze and knead when Eiji's in so deep that he can't breathe properly. "You're going to--ahh--make me--" He _can't_ keep his voice down, and god, that's not good. Oishi's cock twitches when he arches up, grinding against Eiji's stomach, and every slick slide against lean, long muscle is enough to make his eyes cross when Eiji's _so_ far in him, shoving him into the mattress now. 

 

Eiji is good at following cues. When it’s Oishi, he can follow even the nonverbal ones, although verbal ones are always better. It’s why they’re so good at doubles, and even better at _this_ , all tangled up in each other and moving fast. 

 

Oishi doesn’t know how easy he is to read, but that’s fine. Eiji can see it in every wince, every widening of his eyes, every hitch of his breath, every tightening of his thighs. He looks, and he _learns_ , leaning in and thrusting at the angle that makes his pulse jump, grazing his teeth over a spot Oishi doesn’t know is one of his favorites. Oishi’s cock bumps against his stomach, slick and throbbing and heavy, but Eiji is too good to have to stroke it, he thinks. “Oishi…”

 

Oishi already knows.

 

"Eiji--" The gasp of that name is ragged, rough around the edges, enough to make Oishi swallow hard and regret the choice of ever trying to speak in the first place. It doesn't matter, anyway. He can _feel_ Eiji, slick and dripping inside of him, every thrust making his own cock twitch now, every touch of teeth and nails enough to make him feel like he's pleasantly, gloriously overstimulated. 

 

Thank _god_ that his body finally just gives up. He has enough presence of mind, just before, to clamp a hand over his own mouth, to muffle the broken noises that want to escape when he lurches up and clings to Eiji with his other hand and grinds down onto that perfect cock and comes hard all over his own stomach. Oishi's chest heaves, his eyes rolling back when he arches his back up again, wanting just a little bit more to milk the way it feels for as long as he can, because _nothing_ else feels like this and he's very sure that Eiji is perfect, always perfect. 

 

For once, Eiji has to strangle his own noises. Usually Oishi is the loud one, and that’s sure true today, but the way Oishi is _moving_ is enough to make him see stars, enough to drag his orgasm out of him, leaving him breathless and satisfied and still hollowly, urgently wanting _more_ no matter how much he has, wrapped up in Oishi, around Oishi, inside of Oishi. 

 

His hips still move in needy little circles, slower and slower as Oishi squeezes around him, and he grinds up as deep as he can when he finally comes to rest, thick dark hairs tangling together with sweat and sticky fluids. There’s spit drying on Eiji’s face from sloppy kisses, sweat dripping off of his nose onto Oishi’s cheek, and Eiji can’t stifle a pleased little laugh. “There’s no one in the world better than Oishi,” he murmurs, stretching out languidly on top of him, softening cock still buried deep. It always takes him a while to really get soft, and there’s nowhere better to wait.

 

Oishi exhales a long breath against Eiji's cheek, ruffling his sweat-damp hair, and flops his arms back around him, finally, _gratefully_ trusting his own voice again. Actually, no, that's not true. He's still not entirely confident about using it, but this is somewhat better. "Wrong," he mutters, slowly stroking a hand down Eiji's spine. " _You're_ better." He's missed this far too much, and that makes it difficult to even entertain the idea of leaving any time soon. 

 

Eiji nuzzles down against him, sated and tired and thrilled. “Can I stay inside another minute?” he asks, lips brushing against Oishi’s cheekbone and tasting salt, maybe from sweat, maybe from tears, which is kind of hot. “How late can you be?”

 

 _I'm already way too late_ Oishi thinks, but doesn't say it, because it's fine. Tezuka can be blamed a little bit more. "It's fine," he sighs instead, a smile on his lips. "It can be another few minutes. We don't get to do it like this that much." He should probably be chiding Eiji about not using a condom more, but right now, he can't bring himself to care. 

 

“They should cut you some leeway on the night before the finals,” Eiji says firmly. “You’d definitely be stressing out if it weren’t for me.” He shifts slightly, and his eyelids flutter as his cock twitches inside Oishi. “Mm, does it still feel good? I can take it out if it’s squishy or stingy, but you always…” He brushes the hair back from Oishi’s forehead, sort of proud and affectionate all at once. “You always look so good when it’s in you, did you know?”

 

"It's embarrassing when you talk about it like that, you know," Oishi mutters, but that's about the extent of his protests. He squirms a little when he thinks about it, and sighs, less exasperated, more disappointed at the whole _curfew_ thing. "Don't get hard again, I can't stay long here enough to do it again properly." 

 

“Then don’t wiggle like that,” Eiji complains, and shifts enough to let it slide out, or he really _will_ need to do it again properly. There’s a rush of liquid, and then Eiji is muttering, “Shit, shit, shit,” and fumbling for a box of tissues to keep the bed from getting unmentionably wet where he’s going to have to sleep tonight.

 

"This," Oishi immediately hisses, grabbing for the box of tissues at the same time, trying to ignore how weird that feels and _no, stop it, don't get hard again,_ "is why I always tell you to use condoms. Never again!"

 

“Ehh, but it felt good, right? And it’s a lot easier to hide this way, Ken-nii-chan found it last time and I had to make up a _weird_ lie!”

 

"But it's so much messier, you _know that_. Also, think about all the diseases--I mean, not between us, but _please_ tell me you still always used them with Fuji."

 

Eiji gives Oishi’s shoulder a hard shove. “I haven’t _done_ anything with Fuji since he started dating Taka-san, dumbass!” Fuji might be fucking around, but Taka-san is an angel, and Eiji would rather be celibate than hurt him.

 

"I was hoping as much, but I was just _checking_." Oishi huffs, and grabs a handful of tissues for himself, wincing as he tries to clean up himself as best as he can. A shower would be nice, but impractical when it would wake up the whole house. "Don't forget that _you're_ in charge of dealing with him, by the way."

 

Eiji flaps a hand, then yawns, stretching out on the bed, slinging his legs over Oishi’s. “You wanna borrow some underwear so yours don’t get messed up on the walk home?” he offers. “I have old ones, you can throw them out after so no one sees the laundry.” Never let it be said he isn’t a good boyfriend.

 

"…That's probably a good idea." Another reason to always use condoms. What was he thinking? Oishi groans and thunks his head back against a pillow for a moment. "Tezuka still hasn't texted me with the line-up," he wearily admits. "If he doesn't soon, I'm going to be up all night thinking about it." 

 

“What does it matter?” Eiji asks, flopping over to grab a pair of clean underwear in colors his mother likes and he hates. “We’ll beat them, and we’ll be number one in Japan. Echizen won’t lose, Tezuka won’t lose, and Fuji...well, maybe he’ll snap out of it, but still, that’s already three matches. Boom. Too bad, so sad, see you next week.”

 

"I wish it was that simple," Oishi sighs, staring up tiredly at the ceiling. "I'm sure that we'll win, but…everyone else, I'm really not sure." 

 

Eiji leans up, kissing his cheek. “It’s useless to tell you not to worry, right?”

 

"Yes. Absolutely. But I do like hearing it from you." 

 

“Mmm, then don’t worry. Let Tezuka worry, he’s making you go back to being vice-captain, so it’s his job. Unless you can play the matches for them, what’s the point?”

 

"He's not making me, I'd much rather be vice-captain," Oishi complains with a gentle swat in Eiji's direction. "And while you're right, I'm still going to worry." Slowly, he drags himself out of bed, finding his clothes in odd places on Eiji's floor. "I'm just hoping that Echizen will be feeling better tomorrow…and Fuji, too." 

 


	22. Yagyuu & Niou, Fuji & Yuuta, Fuji & Taka

Fuji usually feels a bit disoriented, but now is certainly a degree above that. 

 

It's just icing on the cake for it to start pouring down rain after they leave the stadium. It's one of those days, Fuji thinks, and while normally the rain makes him feel kind of nice, it mostly makes him want to sit outside and drown. Just a little. 

 

Skipping out on the celebration dinner is a good thing. Tezuka does it, too, and drags Echizen with him. That's interesting, but Fuji doesn't care all that much. His head is still pounding, his fingers numb, and…ah, he really is soaked, especially because he's just sort of been walking for awhile and not paying attention to where he should be getting on a bus. 

 

That's where the disorientation starts.

 

Niou is actually a shockingly nice guy, which he doesn't expect. He also doesn't expect the offer to be taken inside and dried off to start with a blindfold, because apparently, Niou's apartment is somewhat of an undisclosed location. Sure, why not. 

 

By the time he _does_ end up on Niou's couch, Fuji doesn't have the heart to tell him that he can tell by the scent of the rain outside that they were right back where they started. He also doesn't really want to mention that he can see out of the edges of the blindfold if he tilts his head just right, because that's probably just going to make him end up outside again. 

 

What matters, of course, is that he's cuddled up into a ball in Niou's jersey while his clothes dry, and that's good. 

 

"Niou-kun, I told you to stop leaving your door unlocked!"

 

Fuji tilts his head to peer out of the blindfold. Hmmm. Guests. Perhaps it isn't so undisclosed here after all. None other than Yagyuu Hiroshi is now in Niou's apartment, shaking off his umbrella and sighing in exasperation. 

 

"It doesn't matter how nice this area is, you're still--" Pause. The twitch is audible. "Fuji…Shuusuke, was it?" 

 

"Mmn. Niou, can I take my blindfold off yet?" 

 

"Niou-kun," is Yagyuu's increasingly irritated voice, "why is he blindfolded?" 

 

“Because this place is a _secret_ , which you seem to have forgotten,” Niou mutters, throwing up his hands as if nothing he does is at all important and why does he even try when his plans will all be ruined? “Fine, take the damn thing off, I’m going to kick you if I see you peeking one more time. Coffee?”

 

"I thought I was being so subtle," Fuji sighs, peeling the blindfold off and snuggling back down into Niou's jersey. Yes, he does sort of like the look that Yagyuu gives him when he does that. 

 

"… _I've_ forgotten that it's secret? You're the one that brought him here," Yagyuu crossly points out, shoving up his glasses even though they're already quite in place. "Why, by the way?" 

 

"It was raining," Fuji offers blithely. He's rather pleased to see that Yagyuu looks quite more annoyed behind closed doors than he ever allows in public.

 

This is no good at all, and certainly bears out Niou’s deep-seated conviction that helping people is more trouble than it’s ever worth. “He looked like a wet cat,” he mutters, as if that’s some kind of explanation. “He’s just here while his clothes dry. He tried wearing mine, but…” 

 

Every item had been so large it had either looked absurd or indecent, and Niou feels weird about sending out items that could be used to track him, anyway.

 

"You don't bring _real_ wet cats home," Yagyuu flatly points out, _trying_ not to think of all the times when he could have very much used a day of being brought home by Niou and that didn't quite happen. Gross. Gross and irrational jealousy, certainly, but he's tired, and this is just… _absurd._

 

"I'm prettier," Fuji breezily notes. 

 

Yagyuu opens his mouth, shuts it again, and turns right back around to grab for his umbrella--maybe to leave, maybe to bludgeon someone (Fuji). 

 

“Yeah, you can get right the fuck out if you’re going to be a cunt about it,” Niou growls to his houseguest, and grabs Yagyuu’s arm, hauling him into the kitchen. “What the hell’s the matter with you? And what do you mean I don’t bring real wet cats home, where do you think that smell comes from?”

 

"You have _Fuji Shuusuke_ curled up on your couch and looking less like a wet cat, but more like a cat that's caught the damned canary," Yagyuu hisses underneath his breath, snatching his arm away with a pointed huff. "He's been making eyes at you this whole tournament, has a boyfriend, and you _still brought him home._ You. To your house. Your _secret_ house that you only let _me_ know about." 

 

Niou stares at him. “He was fucking _blindfolded_ ,” he hisses back, startled and disgruntled at this sudden change in Yagyuu, not liking it one bit. “He missed his bus and he’s obviously kind of fucking touched in the head, he could have died or something. What do you care, as long as I haven’t fucked him?”

 

Yagyuu's eyebrows raise as he folds his arms. "And you weren't going to? Niou-kun, you've never even brought _Yukimura-kun_ home with you." 

 

“Yukimura never shows up at my house half-dead! Damn, is this what I get for trying to do something nice? _No_ , I wasn’t going to.” Niou folds his arms, slouching defensively back against the sink. “Is this a thing now? You just assume I’m gonna fuck, like, every guy?”

 

"No, I'm assuming you're going to fuck someone _pretty_ that you bring home with you," Yagyuu matter-of-factly snaps. "Which I personally think is pretty valid when _you never bring anyone else home._ "

 

“Are you serious here?” Niou demands. “I’m sitting here telling you I’m not gonna, and you don’t even give a shit? Shit, if I were that blindsided by every pretty fucking face, why would I be dating you?”

 

There’s a horrible moment after Niou realizes how that sounds, before he can make his brain work. “I _mean_ that if I were just going to fuck whoever, I’d never have asked--"

 

"You really," Yagyuu curtly interrupts, holding up a hand to shut Niou up, "don't have to keep going." 

 

It makes something twist in Yagyuu's chest--stupid--and makes his face burn, but _fine_. Yagyuu is fairly certain that he's in the right with what his mind is otherwise telling him is irrational jealousy. _He's_ the only one that's supposed to know about Niou's private life. Yukimura doesn't even know (doesn't care enough, only _he_ cares enough), and where Niou lives, as ridiculous as it all is, is part of that. If Niou doesn't get that, fine. 

 

"Go ahead and do what you want, I don't care." He does. Stupid. "I'm sorry I dropped by. Teach Fuji to fix your hair for you, while you're at it."

 

Somewhere deep down, Niou knows that Yagyuu is hurting, that he’s being an asshole because he feels jealous, or upset, or whatever, and isn’t actually trying to hurt him.

 

Really, _really_ deep down.

 

The look on Niou’s face turns ugly, and if Yagyuu still knows anything about him (unlikely, impossible), he’ll know how rarely Niou has been this angry in his life. “Didn’t mean to inconvenience you, Mr. President,” he snarls, and slams the door open, holding it like the _gentleman_ his stupid piece of shit ex-boyfriend is supposed to be. “Go tell Yukimura I want to play singles tomorrow--if you can stop ogling him long enough to actually _talk_ to him.”

 

"He's already made the line-up, so we'll have to make do," Yagyuu stiffly snaps back, shoving up his glasses and grabbing his umbrella. " _Don't_ make this into an issue at the finals with him, or you'll be minus a _prettier_ face to bat your eyes at, won't you?" 

 

He practically rips the door out of Niou's hand to slam it shut behind himself, and Fuji sits on Niou's couch, blinking slowly. "Can I still wait until my clothes dry before you toss me out like that?"

 

Niou stares at the closed door for a lot longer than he’d like to believe. There’s an awful finality about it, that closed door, and he can’t help but feel like he’s five years old again and learning to juggle, and had thought himself good enough to do it with his sister’s expensive, precious snowglobe. There’s that instant again when it had slipped through his fingers--he’d cursed--the dread had settled in his belly--and then, the knowledge that it was too late, that there was nothing to be done, even before the glass shattered.

 

Really, he should have known better than to date his best friend. Better to play with cheap toys. Funny how he’d forgotten that lesson.

 

Fuji had said something, and Niou tries to figure that out. He shakes his head, tearing his eyes away from the door that Yagyuu isn’t coming back through. “Yeah. Whatever. You can watch TV if you want.”

 

"…Dating," Fuji slowly offers, setting his chin on one knee, "is generally a bad idea. I've only dated one person, but I figured that out really quickly." 

 

“That’s really nice,” Niou says, and there’s just about no life in his voice. “Just so you know, talking about what just happened is not an acceptable alternative to watching TV.”

 

"You can name a cactus after him. I did that with Tezuka, and it's the third one. I'm not sure if that means anything or not, though." 

 

Niou flops down on the couch. “You need to water them,” he says wisely. “Plants. Lots of people fuck that up.” He knows better.

 

"I water them. Maybe too much. Sometimes, they get me back for that." Fuji pauses, thinking. "I could give you a cactus if it would make you feel better."

 

Niou is pretty sure there’s at least a few things seriously medically wrong with Fuji Shuusuke’s brain. “I don’t want a cactus. I’ll probably eat it.”

 

Fuji stares back at him, a little wide-eyed. "You can't eat it. They're _sharp_." 

 

“It was a joke. Ha, ha, I want to die right now. Get it? I’m fucking funny.”

 

"I have options for that in my tennis bag if you want them," Fuji offers without batting an eye, and then startling clarity is all that's on his face after that. "You can blame it all on me when you make up with him later, if you want. If he likes to punch things, he can punch me, I don't mind. I can even actually come onto you and it won't be a lie." 

 

Niou stares at him. “I can’t tell if that’s the most freakishly selfless thing I’ve ever heard, or the weirdest come-on. Is that what you were going for?”

 

Fuji's head tilts. "It could be both, I think. I _would_ definitely fuck you."

 

“Yeah, I know.” Niou shrugs. “You’re really obvious. It’s kind of weird, actually. Did you break up with your boyfriend?”

 

"No one else thinks I'm that obvious," Fuji says, sighing. "And no, I didn't, but I should. He's so nice and deserves much better, and I think it would be good if I left him alone." 

 

“But you’re not.” That’s a weird-ass mentality. Niou contemplates getting Fuji a drink, but this asshole just cost him his first and only boyfriend, so he can die of thirst. “Because you like him too much to be apart from him? Or am I supposed to be the reason you break up?”

 

"Mm…well, I didn't _plan_ on meeting you today. I was going to just let it happen, he would have gotten sick of me eventually…" Fuji trails off, thinking, then shrugging, and curling up a bit more into a corner of the couch. "I didn't even know we were dating for about five weeks, so I don't think I'm a good boyfriend, anyway. How long were you dating before?" 

 

“Six days.” Niou snorts, humorless and self-deprecating. “Longest relationship I’ve ever had. You know how it is, you start to drift apart after a while.” His chest aches. Yayguu is stupid. He should go after him. No, Yagyuu needs to come back and apologize. No, who needs his apology? Niou does.

 

Fuck.

 

"You really should just blame it all on me and let him punch me," Fuji attempts to helpfully suggest once more. "Then it's not an official breakup and it'll all be fine."

 

“He’d hurt his delicate golf-playing hands. Ugh, how did I wind up with someone who plays _golf?_ ” Niou slouches down on the couch, attempting to disappear into it. “Gross. Besides, if he thinks this is cool and that punching you will fix it, I don’t want to date him.”

 

"Golf isn't so bad…Tezuka likes fishing, and I do like that," Fuji absently notes. Slowly, however, he scoots over, nudging his shoulder against Niou's. "I can apologize to him, if you want. Mostly, I just wanted you to tell me that I was pretty. I do like hearing that." 

 

“Yeah, but you know you’re pretty.” Fuji does. It’s obvious. So does every pretty guy. “Just don’t tell me you’re toppy too, or I really might fuck you.”

 

Fuji looks back at him, unblinking. "I really like topping big guys. A lot. And I'm good at it." 

 

“Dammit.”

 

Briefly, Niou considers sending Yagyuu a text-- _Are we really broken up, or am I not supposed to fuck other dudes still?_ \--but he’s pretty sure Yukimura would call that tacky. Hey, there’s another reason to refrain, even though his dick is getting kind of hard. “Look, if I fuck you the night before finals, my captain is going to render all the fat on my body into cheese. Rain check? Till the next rain, that is, and we’re both single?”

 

Fuji's head cocks slightly, analyzing, but he settles for a nod all the same, his weight still comfortably flopped against Niou's side. "That sounds good. I'm much better at being single. I don't get how boyfriends work." 

 

Niou doesn’t respond. For six days and four hours, he’d thought he did.

 

It's less than an hour later when Fuji's out of Niou's apartment, somewhat regretfully. It's not pouring rain anymore, also a shame, but it _does_ make it somewhat easier for him to walk on the streets and not end up at home looking like a drowned rat. 

 

Mostly.

 

Ah, well. At least he's home. It's a better place to be the more he thinks about it, because no one is going to talk to him, no one is going to remind him about his utter failure, and no one is going to drive into his brain that he's _not good enough_ (on a dozen levels, mind). 

 

Fuji flops face-first onto his mattress, uncaring that he's still damp, that his hair is sticking to his face and not doing him any favors. He feels a little like he's suffocating because of it, which is less good. He reaches a hand over, paws at his nightstand, sticks a hand into the drawer that he pulls out, and gingerly drags a finger over something sharp. 

 

And then there are _footsteps_ , and that ruins a few plans. 

 

Sister? No, on set. Mother? No, late afternoon nap. _Damn it, Yuuta_ isn't something that usually crosses his mind, but when those steps stop in front of his bedroom door, that sounds about right. "You can come in," Fuji tosses over his shoulder, muffled from the pillow and his hair, unmoving except to shove his nightstand drawer shut again. 

 

Yuuta shuts the door quietly behind himself, seeing his brother sprawled out. A frown steals over his face, and he sits on the edge of the bed. 

 

Maybe it isn’t as bad as he thinks. Maybe his brother is just pulling something, faking something. He’s weird enough that it almost sounds plausible. “Hey, Aniki. You ready for the finals tomorrow?”

 

"Mm. As ready as I'm going to be," Fuji cheerfully says, slowly rolling onto his back. Ah, he wishes he had been able to keep Niou's jersey. It smelled good, if not slightly of wet cat. "I hope you weren't there to watch today. That was no good." He knows Yuuta was there, obviously. 

 

Yuuta shifts, and swallows hard. It’s not supposed to be like this. His brother is obnoxious, unbeatable, and fearless. He’s ineffable, frustrating, and elusive.

 

He’s not supposed to be like this. He’s not supposed to lose.

 

“Make sure you don’t play like that in the finals,” he mutters. “Mizuki-san will gloat if you do. I hate that.”

 

Oh, good. Mizuki gloating; that's very appealing. "I think I just got off on the wrong foot. Or, you know, maybe I'm just getting to the point I'm only good for doubles. Ah, that's no good," Fuji murmurs out loud. "Breaking up with Taka-san _then_ would really make things awkward. Mm, anyway, don't worry, Yuuta. I'll play just fine in the finals, you'll see." He doesn't feel terribly confident; mostly weird, somewhat shaky around the edges, and earlier, Fuji was sure that was just the chill from the rain. 

 

“You’re breaking up with Taka-san?” The idea is weird, and doesn’t exactly make Yuuta happy. “Did he hurt you? I knew he was violent after what he did to Mizuki-san, if he hurt you I’ll kill him!” Yuuta’s hands are uncertain when he reaches out, checking his brother’s arms, his face, his neck for injuries, careful not to touch too firmly.

 

"Yuuta, you're so cute." That's normal and good, at least, and makes Fuji reach out and grab him, promptly hauling him down. "Taka-san didn't do anything," he hums, soothed by the chance to just pet Yuuta's hair. Hopefully, he'll be allowed to do so for a while longer. "I'm just not a good boyfriend. He deserves better. Just like you do."

 

“You’re so stupid, Aniki,” Yuuta complains, though he lets his brother crush him for a little, just a little, just because he’d looked so...upset. Unsettled. “That’s okay for guys like you. For guys like us, we have to take what we can get.”

 

"Nuh uh, wrong. You're really cute, and no one deserves you." He _might_ be squeezing too hard, but that can't be too much of an issue, because Yuuta is a lot stronger than him and probably doesn't feel it all that much. "I don't know how to be a good boyfriend. I bet you do." Even though Fuji doesn't want to think about Yuuta being Mizuki's boyfriend and being a class act about it. Ugh.

 

Yuuta considers squirming away from his brother’s squeezes, but to be perfectly honest,  Mizuki’s sisters squeeze him harder to say hello. For that matter, his _own_ sister squeezes him harder to say hello, so he endures it a little while longer. “I think...I mean, mostly,” Yuuta says, trying to say it without sounding like an asshole, “you just have to think about what the other person wants, you know? I mean, you can say all that stupid stuff about what people deserve, but I mean, who cares what they deserve?”

 

"I do." Maybe that _is_ the problem. Ah, well. Fuji thinks that he deserves a lot of things and never gets them, like a swift crack across the face, but that's neither here nor there. He slowly strokes a hand over Yuuta's hair, smooshing his face down into his chest. "That doesn't seem to mean much, though. I thought Shitenhouji should've won today, for example. I think they deserved it more than we did, but…"

 

“But…” Yuuta turns his face, annoyed all of a sudden. “Maybe you’re right,” he mutters, drawing back from his brother, though he doesn’t pull physically away. “I mean, people want really stupid things. I just don’t get why you think you’re so bad when you’re…”

 

"Garbage?" Yes, it does bring him some satisfaction to just say it out loud. "Yuuta, even you don't like me," Fuji points out, slowly loosening his hold, albeit reluctantly. 

 

After everything that’s passed between them, that shouldn’t come as such a shock to hear.

 

Still, Yuuta’s head snaps around, and his eyes are stunned, wide as he looks up at his brother. “What? That’s...ugh, you’re so _stupid_. You’re just embarrassing, and you piss me off, and I’m jealous as hell, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ you. I’m your brother. I’m proud you’re my brother. God, I thought that was obvious.”

 

How tired and off-kilter is he that those words almost immediately bring tears to his eyes? Perhaps more accurately, how tired and off-kilter is he that he doesn't just start bawling immediately and without restraint? Fuji immediately tightens his hold again, and yanks Yuuta down more strength that he's given credit for, all to stuff his face into the side of his brother's neck. "Yuuta," he says, voice muffled, "you're _way_ too cute. You can't say things like that, I'm going to die." 

 

It does, however, still feel oddly and perhaps pathetically good to hear that sort of thing.

 

All right, Yuuta supposes that he’s brought this one on himself, though it is a little uncomfortably close to a dream he’s been having lately for comfort. “Ugh, this is what I mean by embarrassing,” he complains, though he could be shoving a lot harder at his brother’s arms. “You have to pull yourself together, okay? I’m coming to the game with Mizuki-san, and I want…” His voice drops a little, almost shy as he admits, “I want to show everyone how cool my brother can be. No dying!”

 

"I'm not going to die," is Fuji's sniffly declaration. "But I don't think I'm good at being cool anymore. You need to be the cool one now, Yuuta, I'll just turn into Neesan, take a sabbatical. You can be the one that's good at tennis and everything then." It sounds good when he's thinking it, less when he's saying it, but Yuuta is warm and easy to cling to.

 

“I don’t want it by default!” Yuuta rolls his eyes. His brother is so _dramatic_ sometimes. “Of course you’re still cool. Losing doesn’t mean you’re not cool. The way you move…” He trails off, cheeks dusted bright red. “Listen, just drop this stupid ‘deserve’ nonsense and call your boyfriend. You don’t even believe in it, and I can prove it.”

 

"I don't like losing, though." It comes out petulant, and Fuji hates that. He feels like a sulky child, and while he's fairly certain he's allowed that at the age of 14, he still doesn't think it's supposed to be part of his persona. "And I do so believe in it. I think Taka-san deserves everything good. I'm not good. I'm the worst. If he was your type, I'd tell you to date him, because you're perfect." 

 

Yuuta makes a face, then remembers that Taka-san is a nice person, and tries to hide it. Seriously, though ugh. “Yeah, but you think the only person as bad as you is Mizuki, you told me, so that means you’d have to date him, or no one. You suck at being celibate,” he can’t help but add, “from what you told me, so you’d be sleeping with him, and you’re _not_. So there.”

 

"I considered it," Fuji lightly admits. "When you told me that you wouldn't date anyone that I slept with, I considered it. But then I thought about actually putting it in Mizuki and that made me want to die." 

 

Heat--anger, confusion, and some other things he can’t quite name (or doesn’t want to) surge through Yuuta. “Maybe he would have put it in you. He does that.”

 

"He could have tried, but that's really no fun. Ah, Yuuta, you're a little flushed, are you okay?" Fuji worriedly presses, immediately putting a hand on his brother's face. "You're not getting sick, are you? It was raining so much today." 

 

Yuuta yanks back from the touch, cheeks redder than ever. “I’m fine! Or, yeah, it might be the rain. Anyway,” he says, changing the subject before it can get any more like that one dream, “the point is, you didn’t do it even though you’ve been talking all that crap about deserving. Just admit that you’re bored with Taka-san. You know that’s what everyone’s going to say if you break up with him anyway.”

 

"But I'm not bored with him." Fuji's brow furrows, and he drops his hand down limply. "I really do think he deserves better. A lot better. Like, pretty girl that wants to have kids with him after dating him all through high school better. I'm not good at that part." 

 

Yuuta shrugs. “Everyone’s gonna think it anyway. Besides, just because he might ‘ _deserve_ ’ that pretty girl or whatever, that doesn’t mean there’s a pretty girl who’s gonna date him. There’s…” He swallows hard, looking away, his chest suddenly tight. “If he’s not gonna get that, why not just try to make him happy for a while? You could at least...make him happy for a little while, even if it couldn’t last.”

 

"But I think there are a lot of pretty girls who would date him." Fuji frowns, and grabs at Yuuta's face again, giving it a squeeze. "It sounds like you're projecting, Yuuta," he very solemnly says. "I know all about that. Has Mizuki been horrible to you again? You can tell me, I'll take care of you."

 

Yuuta glares as much as he can, given how much his brother is squashing his face. “It’s nothing like that! Mizuki-san is fine, it’s…”

 

His heart thuds, like it does whenever something happens that’s a little _too close_ to one of those disturbing dreams, and he searches frantically for something to say that will put his brother off. “Uh...it’s a sex thing. With Mizuki-san. But you don’t want to talk about that, so it’s fine.” There. Now his brother will drop the subject, and they won’t have to be _this close_ to each other on his brother’s bed, which, no matter what Mizuki-san says, is probably not normal in a dream.

 

Fuji's eyes narrow on reflex. Mizuki plus Yuuta plus sex equals nothing good in his book, and it makes him immediately nervous. "You can tell me, Yuuta. If he's doing something bad, you can tell me," he firmly insists, still keeping a firm hold on Yuuta's face. "In fact, you should. Like I said, I'll always take care of you, and it's not like he's good enough for you, so you have to let me help you with this kind of thing." This is a much better thing to talk about. He doesn't want to talk about _his_ love life, Yuuta's is much more manageable. 

 

No, this isn’t what Yuuta wants, this is his brother being obnoxiously helpful and protective, and Yuuta’s face burns when his blood pounds hard in his ears and he tries not to think about how it would be _so easy_ for his big brother to help him with this problem if he weren’t such a fucking coward pervert. 

 

“Uh...it’s nothing bad,” he says hastily. “I just…” _Shit, what am I going to say that won’t have him poison Mizuki in his sleep?_ “Look, you’ve, uh, been with a lot of guys, right?”

 

"Mm." Fuji slowly loosens his grip on Yuuta's face, deciding to make it easier for him to talk. He already looks somewhat frantic, so there's no need to make that even worse. Poor Yuuta, so easily embarrassed and adorable about it. He'll kill Mizuki one of these days, he _will_. "Lots. Why?" 

 

Yuuta scoffs a little, easier to think now that his brother isn’t on him. “Not _that_ many, liar. You don’t have to make that up to sound cool.”

 

"Okay, but I have. Like…I don't remember most of them, so there's that. It's unimportant, most weren't good at all. Go back to telling me what Mizuki did wrong." 

 

Yuuta’s hand fists in the bedding of his brother’s bedsheets, flicking at a stupid-looking tassel. “It’s not that he’s doing anything wrong,” he mumbles, suddenly very self-conscious. Well, not that suddenly; he’s usually self-conscious when his brother is around, all lithe grace and effortless beauty and stupid, stupid _everything_. “He’s just...how do you ask for something without, uh...well, without admitting you want it?”

 

Fuji thinks, rolling onto his back again and peering contemplatively up at the ceiling. "It depends on what it is, I think. If it's a sex thing, you could just kind of start doing it and then you don't have to _verbally_ admit it. Most guys go along with that pretty well, because men only think with their dicks." 

 

Yuuta’s face _hurts_ , he’s so embarrassed. How do you even talk about something like this? But no, he’s seen it, read about it in books, it has to be a thing. “Uh...you say you’ve been with a lot of guys,” he hedges, deliberately looking anywhere other than at his brother--and in this room, that unfortunately means looking at a lot of blurry pictures of Tezuka’s clothed shoulders from behind. “Do all of them...like it the same way?”

 

"Oh, no. Definitely not. Everyone's got preferences." Fuji tries not to remember Yuuta's preferences. Ah, but he does, and it makes him twitch. "Is Mizuki not doing it right?" _I'll kill him_. "I knew he wasn't good enough for you." 

 

“It’s not his fault,” Yuuta says quickly, all too aware that his brother occasionally makes good on his creepy threats. “Jesus, Aniki, if you had your way I’d be alone forever. I just….” Okay, the longer he puts this off, the longer he has to keep having this conversation. He takes a deep breath, then babbles, “HowdoIgethimtobelessgentle?”

 

Oh. _Oh_ , it keeps getting worse. Fuji tries not to twitch again, but it's easier said than done when he slowly turns to Yuuta, smiles, and strokes his hair. "Mizuki," he patiently says, "isn't going to do that right. You really need to be with someone that has more experience." 

 

Yuuta lets out a noise something like a dying whale in the depths of despair, and thunks his head into his brother’s chest. “ _You_ have more experience. Right?” He can taste his own heartbeat. Is that normal?

 

This is good. Yuuta cuddled up to him, Yuuta admitting all of his deep, dark secrets to him, Yuuta realizing that Mizuki is trash…perhaps today isn't a total waste after all. Fuji decisively wraps his arms around his little brother, cuddling him closer. "I do, and that's why I know that he's going to be _awful_ at it. He really has no sense for that sort of thing, and the last thing I want is for him to hurt you." 

 

God. Yuuta knows better than to hope--his brother is never serious, _never_ , no matter how many hints he drops, no matter how often he’s come _so close_ to saying it outright--but he’s so, so _stupid_. He knows it, he knows how fucking stupid it is to even think there might be a chance that his brother is as sick, as twisted, as fucked-up as he is—

 

_“Yuu-tan,” his brother laughs, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing, “Your lips are soooo soft! You smell so good! Your shoulders are so broad!”_

 

Maybe Mizuki is right and they are just dreams, but maybe, just maybe, his brother is just as hesitant about admitting this as he is. His stomach twists, his pulse thuds dully, his mouth goes dry, and slowly, nervously, Yuuta wriggles his way up, wondering how hard it will be to pretend he hadn’t meant to brush his lips against his brother’s neck, his breath shaky and uneven, eyes squeezed shut.

 

It doesn’t feel like he’s really awake, not as long as he keeps his eyes shut. Shuusuke’s skin is as soft as he’d known, and if only his own breath weren’t so _loud_ , it might have been an accidental movement.

 

Maybe if his hands weren’t trembling so much.

 

It should be obvious enough when Yuuta goes silent and doesn't refute anything that he's saying about Mizuki, but--

 

The problem is that Fuji _knows_ that breathing pattern so well, knows what it means, knows what it means _way too well_ when another guy is wriggling closer to him and mouthing his neck and breathing on his skin, hot and fast and trembly. 

 

Shit. 

 

 _What did I do to encourage this_ is the first, frantic thought that crosses his mind, and Fuji firmly shoves away his self-imposed space cadet routine to cling to stark clarity instead. Bad. Worse. Especially when he already has all four limbs wrapped around Yuuta and hurriedly moving away is going to make this _worse still._ "Yuuta," he quietly attempts instead, sliding a hand up to gently press at one of his shoulders, trying to put distance between them as carefully as possible, "listen--I think…I did something to confuse you." 

 

Every tenuous, insane pipe dream, every half-mad prayer he’d strung up in the cathedral of his mind severs at once. They shatter, those what-ifs and maybes, at the first sound of his name in his brother’s voice.

 

Shuusuke knows.

 

That’s _not_ eagerness, relief, or arousal in his voice.

 

Despite his brother wrapped around him, despite the fact that he’d been flush to the brim with as much courage as he’d ever managed to muster a bare second ago, Yuuta feels suddenly, inescapably cold, hollow, and starkly, sickly terrified. He’s thrown away his only chance--he’s only got one to use for his entire life, after all--of pretending that this--that having his brother wrapped around him, surging into him, moaning his name--had never occurred to him.

 

Shuusuke knows.

 

Yuuta goes very, very still. He doesn’t dare pull away yet, not when he knows he’ll see his brother’s eyes, not when this is his last chance to have Shuusuke as even a brother. It all plays in his head in a split-second, which is easy, given how much of his time has been spent imagining this exact moment in the past. He could laugh it off, apologize, say he’s sick or high or drunk or tired and Shuusuke will let him, and it will always, _always_ be in his big brother’s eyes whenever they talk. He could pull away, run, never see him again, and he knows already how painful that is, knows how painful and lonely it is even _with_ Shuusuke coming by sometimes to beg him home with curry and pie. He could blame Mizuki, if he wants Mizuki to literally be found dead within a week. 

 

So he’s already ruined everything, and there’s nothing left to lose.

 

Because Shuusuke knows.

 

“I thought you knew.” His voice sounds strange to his own ears, ragged, tortured, and everything he’s been holding in for years is painfully naked in it.

 

 _Shit, shit, shit_ is the better part of Fuji's thought process, because he's so certain this is his fault. Most things that go wrong for Yuuta are his fault. This can't be any exception, because maybe he's said or done something or--well, what hasn't he done? He's trash enough that it would be easy for Yuuta to misconstrue _I've slept with lots of guys_ to mean _I'll sleep with anyone_ and--

 

Has he _ever_ fucked up so royally in his entire life? 

 

Usually, he can at least pinpoint the exact moment. Right now, he can't, and that's scary. Fuji feels like something of a deer in the headlights when he draws in a slow, meant-to-be-calming breath. "I--" Maybe if he blames it all on himself, maybe if he says that he _did_ know, but ha, just kidding, I was messing with you, I'm taken, of course you can't sleep with me, _maybe_ that will make it more his fault, less Yuuta's, somehow. 

 

Except he wanted to break up with Taka not fifteen minutes ago, so that excuse doesn't hold much weight, and it's even scarier how much Fuji would prefer to just hide behind Taka right now and forget about this ever happening. 

 

"…I'm sorry," is what he manages instead, and that sounds painfully, pathetically inadequate. "Yuuta--I'm really sorry, but I can't." 

 

Of course he can’t. 

 

The sudden burn in Yuuta’s eyes is startlingly painful, but it’s nothing compared to the lump the size of a tennis ball in his throat. They aren’t moving, neither of them are, because once they move, they’ll have to deal with this. They’ll have to look each other in the eye, and admit that this is really happening, and that doesn’t sound like anything either of them want to do. 

 

_Do you hate me?_

 

He wants to ask it, but he doesn’t want to hear the answer, the urgent, consoling voice telling him of _course_ not, Shuusuke could _never_ hate him, his sweet, perfect, innocent little brother.

 

_You’re always grabbing me and kissing me and cuddling me even though we’re grown up, you tell me I’m perfect and handsome and—_

 

And Shuusuke is his big brother, and not a fucking deviant. He doesn’t have a brain that’s wired wrong, not like Yuuta does, and even if he’s apparently slept with half of Tokyo, he probably doesn’t close his eyes and say his brother’s name when another man is inside him.

 

Not like Yuuta does.

 

“Yeah.” His throat closes up after that one word, raw and excruciating, and he can’t say anything else.

 

 _How do I fix this_ , _how_. 

 

Fuji's own breath gets trapped up in his throat, and it takes another painfully long moment before he can think of _anything_. "You really deserve better, _trust_ me." It's the _only_ thing he can think of, and at least Fuji believes in it himself. "You--ahh, listen, Yuuta, it's fine," he attempts, forcing his hands to move, to smooth one of them soothingly down his brother's spine. "You just need to find a boyfriend that's _good_ to you, you know, one that's really going to be able to take care of you like you want. You don't even like me, you're just a little hard up, I get that." 

 

Shuusuke is trying to give him an out.

 

Yuuta tries to go along with it. It would be so easy that way, to agree that yes, Mizuki doesn’t give him what he needs, sure, he’ll find someone better and get over this, no, it’s not really _Shuusuke_ that he wants, ha, ha. 

 

He just can’t. Not today.

 

His eyes blaze, and he grabs his brother’s shoulders, slamming them down to the bed in a sudden surge of frustration. “You always say that,” he accuses, some of that pain back as anger, his voice jagged and low, hands tight on his brother’s shoulders. “Yuuta, don’t be with Mizuki, no one understands you like _me_ , no one could make you happy like _I_ know how, I’m the best in tennis and the best in bed and no one but me is good enough for you!” He sees the splash of hot tears on his brother’s face and chest as they fall from his own eyes, and is detachedly interested that he can’t feel them falling or hear them in his voice.

 

Fuji freezes up. It's really not something that he _likes_ doing, because isn't he supposed to be the one that can talk himself out of anything? Being confronted with a _real_ problem is new, and he rather likes his imagined ones much more. "B…but--" He swallows, blinking hard. "I didn't--I don't mean it like _that_. Like _this_." 

 

The more he turns it over in his head, the more it really does sound…bad. Shit. How did he miss that? Brocon jokes aside, he never really thought--"You're my little brother," Fuji tries again, desperately. "I'm just trying to _take care of you._ " 

 

“Yeah,” Yuuta says bitterly, “like driving away the one guy I ever tried to date. I thought--with Mizuki--I thought you’d at least--I mean, shit, he’s just _like_ —even _you_ were mentioning it—”

 

He pulls himself away, running both hands back through the short brush of his hair.

 

It takes some supreme effort not to be sick. "Yuuta--he's _horrible_ ," Fuji hurriedly says, lurching up to grab at his brother's arm. "And so am I, and that's why you shouldn't be with either of us. This is all my fault, don't you get that? There are _so_ many other guys out there that you could be with that are much, much better." 

 

“But I don’t _want_ them!” 

 

He keeps trying to stop talking, but the lid of the box is open now, and none of his usual tricks for shutting up and putting up are helping. He can’t pull away from his brother’s touch, not now, and grabs Shuusuke by the shirt collar, hauling him close, studying his face for something, anything to tell him what to _do_. “I try! Girls, too, I can’t like them--you’re good at it, I can’t do it, I can’t--it’s just _always_ you, and he’s not good enough but he’s close enough and he doesn’t mind—”

 

"Mizuki _knows?_ " That's horrifying on another level. It isn't even that Mizuki knows about this specifically; it's that Mizuki knows something about Yuuta that he just now found out, and that makes something in Fuji's chest twist. That's all he can process for a moment. "Yuuta--you can't just _tell him_ things like this," Fuji tries, resting his hand over Yuuta's. "At least I care about you, he's just going to keep using you."

 

“I didn’t _tell_ him, shit.” The problem with Shuusuke’s room is that there’s nothing good to focus on, just Tezuka’s blurry face and calves judging him everywhere. “It’s not that hard to figure out, I—I mean, I didn’t _mean_ to, but he heard what I said and he said it was okay and he didn’t...I mean, he didn’t hate me or anything.” He laughs once, bitterly, humorlessly. “That’s so fucked up. I said my brother’s name when he was fucking me, and _that_ went better than confessing to you just did.” His brother probably has pills somewhere. He _knows_ there are blades around.

 

There's no getting rid of that sick feeling, is there? Not even a sideways glance at one of his better shots of Tezuka--minus glasses, the ultimate score--does anything to calm him down. Instead, it just makes him feel a bit sicker. _This is my fault, all my fault, I did this, I don't know how to fix it._

 

"…I don't hate you. I could never hate you." Fuji isn't even sure if that helps or not, but he hopes it does. "I just…I know this is a really bad idea, and I don't want to hurt you, or for you to…to feel worse about this. It's my fault you feel like this, I know that." 

 

“Shut up, Aniki.” The anger has drained away now, leaving Yuuta shaky, empty, and cold. It’s almost a relief. “It’s not your fault. _You’re_ not like this, so it can’t be your fault.” _It’s mine, for wishing you were like this._ “God, look, I’m not _that_ fucked up, I know it’s wrong, okay? I just…” he wants to punch a wall, but settles for flopping back and staring at the ceiling instead. “It seemed like you knew.”

 

For a stupid, fleeting moment, Fuji is fairly certain that he wishes he could just give Yuuta what he wants. That would make it a lot easier, wouldn't it? Break up with Taka, be Yuuta's boyfriend, _really_ make him happy for once--

 

It makes him throw up in his mouth a little. 

 

Swallowing hard, Fuji shakes his head. "I didn't. I'm sorry. Really sorry."

 

Yuuta misses him.

 

It’s weird, because his brother is right there next to him, physically close and totally whole, and Yuuta already misses him. He misses the brother he’d had half an hour ago, who thought nothing of holding him close and laughing into his hair, and the one who called all hours of the night to make sure he was fine, that his trash boyfriend hadn’t done something. 

 

He’s killed the brother he loves so much, with a stupid kiss. 

 

He wants to say something, but there’s nothing to say. He just stares up at the blank ceiling, wishing he didn’t feel so much like a murderer.

 

Fuji shifts, uncomfortable, awkward in his own skin for the first time that he can remember, and he slowly makes a grab for his cell phone. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Sorry to bother you, but**

**Can you come over?**

 

His fingers shake a little, and that's not good. He sets his phone down, drawing in a slow breath. "Neesan's going to be home soon," Fuji attempts, grasping at normalcy. "I bet she'd make you dinner, if you wanted." 

 

The idea of food makes Yuuta’s stomach turn. “Nah. I’m just…” He huffs out a breath. “Look, we both know that once I leave I won’t come back.” _Just give me a minute to be next to you, for the last time._

 

**To: Fuji-kun**

**Subject: Re: Sorry to bother you, but**

**On my way. Evrything OK?**

 

Fuji's stomach gives another lurch. "You don't have to do that. Yuuta, I'm never going to tell anyone, you know that. And I don't want you to feel weird, I don't hate you, I could never hate you. We can just pretend this never happened." 

 

His hand squeezes too-tight around his phone, a sideways glance down at it making it clear there's no point in replying. 

 

“But you know.” It’s final, and in a way, it’s a relief. At least he doesn’t have to pretend he isn’t affected when his brother hugs him anymore, because that’s never going to happen again. Yuuta tries for a smile, but fails miserably, and hauls himself off the bed. “I’m…” God, he’s pathetic. “I’m not who you wanted me to be. I’m….I’m sorry, Ani...Shuusuke.”

 

He can’t look at his brother.

 

Instead, he wrenches the door open, then runs out of his brother’s room, out of the house.

 

 _I'm trash, it's me_.

 

Fuji sighs, flopping onto his back to stare up at the ceiling. That happened. That _actually_ happened. He can't even pretend that it didn't, because he still feels sick, and rather like he wants to throw himself out of his own bedroom window. 

 

**To: Taka-san**

**Subject: Re: Sorry to bother you, but**

**no**

 

Still trash, actual trash, because he's treated Taka like he's some throwaway plaything and now he's begging for him to come over and--what? Soothe him? Considering Fuji can't even tell him what's going on, that's not going to go over so well. He groans, throwing his phone onto the floor, and dragging a pillow onto his face.

 

Suffocating would be good. 

 

It’s barely ten minutes later when Taka shows up, red-faced and sweaty around the hairline, still wearing the headband with KAWAMURA SUSHI printed on it and his chef’s coat untied over a plaid shirt. He bows formally to Yumiko and leaves his shoes at the door before hurrying through Fuji’s open door, not wasting any time in shutting the door behind him then kneeling on the bed, carefully cupping Fuji’s face in both large hands. The worry on his face is intense, and everything about the way he positions himself--back to the door, body between Fuji and the rest of the room, up on his knees and towering over Fuji--says _protection_. “There was a passenger injury on the train, or I’d have been here sooner,” he explains. “Sorry, I couldn’t run faster.”

 

Fuji realizes, not for the first time or the last time, that he's fucking _stupid_ around Taka.

 

Wasn't he going to break up with Taka after finals? That was a better plan, not this one, where he just slowly sits up and throws his arms around Taka's neck and clings. He's disgusting, and selfish, and his stupid little brother wants to fuck him and that makes _him_ sick and he can't even say that. 

 

Fuji blinks hard, stops himself from crying for the umpteenth time--stupid, he doesn't deserve to, it was his fault, what the _hell_ \--and keeps clinging. "Sorry," he says before he can sift and censor what he's going to say, like he always does. "I'm sorry. I've been awful, I don't know why." 

 

“Shh, you’re fine, I’m here.” Not that it’s probably much of a comfort to Fuji, Taka thinks with a little involuntary jab at himself, but it’s all he has. He holds Fuji close, squeezing him hard enough to make him feel his presence, to help him realize that this is real, that he’s _safe_. “No matter what’s bothering you, it’s okay, we’ll fix it, okay? You don’t have to tell me, it’s fine.”

 

"I _want_ to tell you." That's the worst part. He just promised Yuuta he wouldn't tell anyone, but he wants to spill everything to Taka right here, right now, and that sucks. His next breath is a shuddery one, and he burrows his way into Taka's chest, his arms all sorts of wobbly when they flop over Taka's shoulders. "I can't fix it. I fucked up, it's all my fault, I _really_ don't know what to do." 

 

Taka holds Fuji close, letting his breathing even out, gently petting his hair with every exhale. It’s probably not much comfort, but if Fuji doesn’t want to talk, maybe he can at least make it easier. Swallowing his own pride (easier to do than he’d thought it would be), he says gently, “If this is about...look, you don’t even have to tell me who it was. I forgive you, okay? But, uh, if this is about something else, then I’m really sorry for assuming. Sorry in general. But if it _is_ that, it’s, uh, fine.”

 

It doesn't even process for a moment. Fuji blinks wetly into Taka's chest, trying to put the pieces of that together and-- _oh_. Shit. No, this is why he doesn't deserve anything good in life. This is why he's filth, and why he shouldn't be _allowed_ to sit crying in his boyfriend's shoulder when he's literal fucking trash. He's grateful for the reminder.

 

His palms itch, and so he curls his nails into one of them-- _hard_. "Who do _you_ think it was?" 

 

Taka hesitates. Guessing games are no fun, especially not games like this. “I don’t care. Honestly, Fuji, I don’t. Look, we both know I’m lucky to have you even this much.” He smiles, trying to be encouraging, and squeezes a little tighter. “If it was someone that--did he hurt you? I won’t let anyone hurt you, no matter what.” Because this is what he has going for him--he knows it. He’s loyal, and eventually, even if Fuji has to run through every better guy in the world (and he knows just how many there are), Taka will still be here, and Fuji will really see how much he loves him.

 

"…Is there literally nothing I can say to you that will make you go away?" 

 

Fuji lets his forehead thunk against Taka's chest, angry that he let those words slip out, but at the same time, sort of relieved. Maybe this is how Yuuta felt when he finally just confessed. Maybe Taka will figure out just how horrible he is, and how hard he's been trying to make Taka _see_ so that he would leave first. "Taka-san, you deserve so much better. You deserve someone that's going to treat you right. It was Echizen, by the way." 

 

Taka’s smile falters, and fades. “I’m not…Fuji, I’m not hard to get rid of.” 

 

He settles back onto his heels, loosening his arms, but keeping them around Fuji’s body, just in case he’ll let himself be held a little longer. “All you have to do is tell me you don’t want to be with me. Believe me, I’ve been expecting it. But I’m not going to break up with you.” He leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Fuji’s cheek.

 

"Why _not?_ " It sounds petulant, incredulous all at once, because god help him, he doesn't get it. Fuji's shoulders shake as he sits back, blinking hard again. "Why _wouldn't_ you break up with me? I'm an awful boyfriend, Taka-san, and I've been treating you horribly for the past few weeks. You almost got thrown in jail because of me, Mizuki was going to _press charges_." Apparently, he's just going to _say shit_ tonight. That's just fucking great. 

 

Taka frowns, half-concerned and half-frustrated, verging on the edge of a bit of anger now. It’s always slow, his anger, but it’s been building for quite a while lately, and it’ll come out eventually, he knows. “Why is that your fault?” he asks, letting his arms drop. “I didn’t ask your permission, and you didn’t tell me to take care of that guy. I _can_ make my own decisions, and that includes wanting to date you. I’m not a kid.”

 

"It's my fault because you would have never done it if I hadn't been so upset about Mizuki. And just because you can make your own decisions doesn't mean they're good ones--wanting to date me is a really, _really_ bad one." Fuji bites his lower lip to make it stop trembling. "No one wants to date me, because they've _figured it out_. When are you going to see how bad of a person I am?"

 

Taka flushes dark, and doesn’t meet Fuji’s eyes. “You think I’m really slow.” It’s not really a question.

 

"I think," Fuji firmly replies, "that you try to see the good in people even when it isn't there. You give out way too many chances, and _that part_ isn't smart." 

 

The frown on Taka’s face deepens, a long crease forming between his eyebrows. “Fuji...I’m not nearly as nice as you seem to think I am. Just because I can see the good in some people doesn’t mean I _expect_ stuff out of them. I mean, like--I know full well that Akutsu is probably going to spend most of his time doing awful things, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing in him worth anything. It doesn’t mean he’s not worth knowing or having as a friend, you know?”

 

"Why would you keep him around when he does nothing but say horrible things to you and treat you like you're trash?" Fuji exasperatedly replies, his fingers curling tightly over his knees. " _That's_ what I'm trying to tell you, Taka-san. You deserve to have good friends, a good _girlfriend_ , not someone like me. Do you _like it_ when I ignore you and make you feel like you're my last option?" 

 

“No,” Taka says frankly, because Fuji seems to be in the mood for honesty, no matter how rough that might be. “But I don’t like it when you push me away either. You don’t always know best, you know. I’d rather be your last option than no option at all.” His voice drops, and he says, a little earnestly, “As long as you text me when you’re upset, I’m the happiest guy there is. I never thought you’d want me even this much.”

 

 _How did I even find someone with self-esteem on par with mine?_ Fuji dimly wonders, and he briefly shuts his eyes, drawing in a slow breath. "Why?" he finally asks, honestly baffled. "Why would you want to be treated like that? I'm pretty, but there are other options."

 

…And then there's sudden realization when he looks sideways and catches a glimpse at another badly blurred photo of Tezuka and shit, shit, how many times has he imagined himself having a similar conversation with Tezuka? _I'd rather be your last option than no option at all, I never thought you'd want me even this much_ \--he's going to be sick all over again. 

 

For this, Taka has no words. He spreads his hands, helpless, and gives Fuji a weary smile. “It’s you,” he says simply, because for him, it just _is_.

 

"…But I'm _not_ worth it." That's where it's different. Tezuka is. Tezuka's definitely worth it. He's handsome, and smart, and so, so good at everything that he does, and Fuji _knows_ that he's a good person. But he won't ever even try, because he _knows_ that _he's_ not good. "I'm not a good person. I'm _worse_ than Akutsu, because everyone around me suffers without me even trying." Yuuta, tenfold. "I'm…Taka-san, I'm the _worst_ , I don't want you to keep being sad because of me." 

 

The miscalculation, of course, is in thinking that Taka isn’t nearly as stubborn as he actually is.

 

He folds his arms, face implacable as he looks at Fuji. “You don’t get to decide it. If you want to break up with me, that’s your choice, but you can’t make me not want to be with you.” He scoots forward, unable to keep up the look on his face, and reaches out to cup Fuji’s cheek, stroking his hair. “You think I don’t know you? You’re the reason I’m on the regulars--who else stayed with me after school twice a week for a year, helping me with my serve and my reactions? Who helped me pass Current Events in our first year? Who played doubles with me when he could have been in Singles every time if he wanted to make an issue out of it? Fuji, it’s like you don’t see the good parts in yourself--but that’s okay, because I _do_.”

 

"You're only picking and choosing things," is Fuji's immediate protest, his voice shaking around the edges. "There's way more bad things than good--and those good things you listed, they're just…" He trails off, sagging forward, leaning his head into Taka's hand. He can't help it, not when Taka is this warm, this _solid_ , real and actually here and…no, no, he can't do this. "You're _way_ too good for me. You need, really need, someone that can be good for you, too. I spend all my time taking pictures of _Tezuka_ , I'm the _worst_ big brother, I'm just--"

 

“I don’t care!” Nothing he says is getting through to him, so Taka grabs Fuji’s shoulders, shaking him a little. “That’s a stupid thing to care about! Just because you tell me to doesn’t mean I’m going to stop loving you, so stop trying, because it’s never going to happen!” He punctuates that with a rough, urgent kiss, emboldened by the feeling of Fuji’s pliant body under his hands, terrified into acting by the thought of _losing him_.

 

Fuji feels shaky all over, and that, for once, is new. 

 

There's a protest already on his tongue, the same argument over and over in hopes that Taka will eventually _understand_ , but it's gone the moment he's kissed--no, before that, something about Taka loving him, that's what kind of kills it. A moment of turning that over in his head finally makes him lurch backwards, a hand on Taka's chest, his own heaving slightly. "You _don't_ mean that. Taka-san..." _I haven't done anything worthy of you feeling like that._

 

Taka is having none of being banished right now. He grabs Fuji again, so easy to do when he’s so much stronger, and lifts him bodily into his lap, eyes burning as much as they ever do on the tennis court. “You can’t just order me around like that. I’m a man. I can make my own choices.” He kisses Fuji again, insistent, urgent, before saying, “And no matter what you tell me, I’m going to choose you every time.”

 

Fuji isn't very good at relenting--at least, in something like this. For once, though, he's not being given a choice, and being in Taka's lap makes it a bit more difficult to keep arguing. Another protest dies on his lips--but he's sure it's a good one this time, Taka will _get it_ \--

 

_I'm going to choose you every time._

 

"…No one's ever…" No, that's weak, pathetic, stupid, he's not that stupid, guys--girls--both have said that before, because he's pretty, because he knows what to say to make them like him, but he's been trying for awhile now to make Taka realize that he's awful and to make Taka hate him and that just doesn't seem to work. His vision isn't getting wet and blurry, except it is, and that's awful. "B-but I've been horrible to you all week, and I slept with someone else, and…"

 

“And I still choose you.” Taka can be implacable as hell when he wants to, and right now, they both need it. His arms are strong and warm, wrapped around Fuji’s body, pulling him close but not stifling. “And I’m going to be your boyfriend until you tell me you don’t love me anymore.” He frowns, something occurring to him, and asks, “If you were really that bad a person, wouldn’t you be trying to get me to stay with you?”

 

"Maybe I'm such scum that I want you to be so upset that you just leave on your own." It's not exactly enthusiastic when he says it, though, and Fuji can't even muster the strength to pull away, not when Taka is so warm and such a balm to his nerves. He exhales a long, shuddering sigh. "We're in middle school, Taka-san. How can you talk about love like that?" 

 

Taka’s hands are sure and strong, stroking gently up Fuji’s shoulders, down the tense curve of his back. “I’m old enough to choose my career,” he says softly. “Tezuka is old enough to go pro. Oishi is old enough to choose medical school. If I’m in love with you, shouldn’t I say it? You need to know I’m going to take care of you, no matter what. You’re safe with me.”

 

Fuji butts his head against Taka's chest. "In what way do I need to be protected? Most people need protection from _me_. Listen, do you have any idea how weird I am?" 

 

“I _have_ known you for three years,” Taka points out, “and I like to think I’m smarter than the average rock. I mean, no offense, but look around your room. Don’t you think there’d be something wrong with me if I hadn’t figured some of it out by now?”

 

"…I _don't_ really try to hide it," Fuji allows. "But this is just the tip of the iceberg." He'd mention his Yuuta photo collection, too, but he can't talk about Yuuta right now.

 

“I,” Taka says solemnly, “am not afraid of a lot more ice. I’m pretty tough, Fuji. I can handle it.”

 

"…You are, aren't you." That comes out more tiredly than Fuji would like, and he lets his head thunk against Taka's chest again. "Just because you're tough doesn't mean I want you to have to be, though." 

 

Taka’s fingers dig slightly into Fuji’s upper arms, and if he were anyone else, the clip of his voice would sound annoyed. “Can we try dating for a little while where we just...be ourselves, and not worry about what the other one is supposed to think? Because I think I know you pretty well by now, even if you don’t think I do.”

 

God, he'd be a liar if he said that didn't sound _good_.

 

Unrealistic, but good. Fuji chews on his lower lip, glancing down, not really trusting himself to look at Taka when he's pretty sure he's just going to start crying like a dumbass--again. "I don't think you do," he softly agrees. "But if we do that, you have to promise me you'll break up with me if you don't like me anymore." 

 

Taka blinks. “Why would I stay with you if I didn’t like you? Sure, that’s easy, I promise.” He kisses Fuji’s forehead, then tilts up his chin, looking gravely into his face. “But it’ll never happen. It’s…” He almost looks away, but forces himself to be brave. “It’s not like I just fell in love with you when we started going out, you know. It’s been a long time.”

 

"Taka-san, I don't think you're real," Fuji solemnly says, reaching up to gently poke one one of Taka's cheeks. "I don't think someone real can be that sweet." 

 

“Maybe,” Taka says, batting at Fuji’s hand gently, “you’re doing that thing you think I do. I’m not that sweet, Fuji.”

 

"But you are. No one else says things like this to me. I think that's pretty solid proof." 

 

“Fuji, I’ve done a lot of stuff that wasn’t sweet. I have bad thoughts too, you know.” It makes him ashamed to admit, but maybe Fuji needs to hear it. “You’re just seeing the good in me because you want to.”

 

"Don't turn that back on me, that's not cute. It's not the same, anyway; it's not like you plot violent murders or anything." 

 

Taka doesn’t say anything to that, but his hands clench, and his head bows slightly.

 

"Okay, but it's not like you plot violent murders for the _fun_ of it. Or, you know, ruin the lives of your siblings on a daily basis." 

 

“Is Yuuta okay?” Taka asks. It’s probably never going to be Yumiko Fuji means when he says “siblings.”

 

"Nope," Fuji replies, faux-cheerful. "And that's my fault, too. I upset him a lot today; that's why I…kind of had to call you over. I'm sorry for bothering you, Taka-san." 

 

“It’s no trouble,” Taka insists. His father had been not exactly thrilled, but he hadn’t been angry that Taka had run out in the middle of his shift, either. “What happened? You were so shaken up, did he say something? Was there a fight?”

 

"I just messed up a lot, as per usual." Fuji gives up, goes limp, flops against Taka's chest and hooks his chin over his shoulder. This could be worse, he tells himself. Taka will figure it out eventually. He _will_ , though right now, Fuji is very sure that he doesn't want Taka to figure anything out about him. "I'm just not good at anything anymore, I think. Maybe that's better." 

 

Taka is starting to feel more and more that this isn’t so much what a teenager looks like when he’s afraid he’s ‘too good’ for someone, but instead is what a genius looks like when he’s throwing a temper tantrum. He doesn’t have a whole lot to say to that, just squeezes Fuji a little and assures him, “I’m sure Yuuta still loves you, no matter what you did.”

 

"Wish he didn't," Fuji mumbles, shuddering a little. "You can squeeze me until I pop, that would also be good." 

 

“Sorry, is that too tight? I can—”

 

The sound of the lock clicking on the door is startling, and Taka looks towards it. “I thought no one was home.”

 

Fuji's eyes narrow at the door, and he slowly slides out of Taka's hold, wobbling his way to the door. Locked, obviously, which is…new. "Neesan," he _patiently_ says, "if this is your idea of a joke, it's bad." 

 

The sound of something heavy being dragged laboriously across the door is loud, Taka thinks, much louder than the voice that calls through, “Don’t call me that nickname, it’s a bad one. You and Taka can stay in there until you straighten things out and stop breaking up!”

 

Fuji twitches. "Eiji," he tiredly says, "we already made up. Why are you doing this? Why are you at my house?" This has been way too long of a day.

 

“You and Taka-san are fighting, and you’re usually a filthy liar,” Eiji informs him firmly. “Make up! Taka-san, fight-o!”

 

Taka looks nervously over at Fuji. “How long is he going to keep us in here? I have homework.”

 

"You can ask Taka-san, too, you know," Fuji points out on a sigh. "He'll tell you the same thing." He glances over at Taka, heaving his shoulders in a shrug. "I'll do it for you if he decides to be a jerk about it. Otherwise, there's always the window if you're feeling adventuresome." 

 

Taka chews his lip. “That’s kind of high up,” he admits. Fuji’s anger he can handle, no problem. Heights are a little different. “Kikumaru-kun, it’s true, we’ve made up.”

 

“He might be making you lie! Um, but still date him please, I’m sure he loves you very much!”

 

" _Eiji_ ," Fuji very firmly says this time, "if you moved a dresser in front of this door, I guarantee it's Yumiko's, and she's going to be angry. So move it, and let us out." 

 

“I helped him, Shuusuke-kun!” comes a woman’s delighted voice. “It’s some of my most delightful colors, too. That should force a settlement!”

 

Eiji’s laugh is only a little strained. “Your sister has interesting ideas, but she’s a lot stronger than she looks!”

 

Fuji just looks back helplessly at Taka. "Do you want to spend the night?" 

 

Taka gives him a shy little smile. “If you don’t mind letting me call my father...I’d love to.”

 


	23. Kintarou & Ryouma, The Finals

The finals are tomorrow.

 

It's something that rings loud and clear in Ryouma's thoughts, and it won't shut up. It won't shut up even after Atobe managed to convince him to drink half a glass of wine, and from there, things got fuzzy for about half an hour. 

 

It's probably better that he left when Tezuka-buchou started getting weird and pawing at Atobe like a cat. 

 

Now, flopped on his bed, staring up at the ceiling, thinking about how the finals are just _hours_ away and he can't sleep and he's going to fail and this is all the worst thing that could happen, Ryouma wonders if there's anything else he can do.

 

Probably not.

 

He crawls slowly out of his bed, frowning at Karupin's absence, and pads his way down the hall. Maybe if he sits and stares at a tennis court for awhile, he'll have better ideas about how to win. Maybe. He doesn't know what else to do, so…

 

Sliding open a door and being presented with someone actually _sitting_ on the tennis court, however, doesn't inspire any good thoughts or planning. Mostly, it inspires complete and utter confusion. "Who--" He pauses, eyes narrowed. "Karupin, don't talk to strangers!"

 

"Reneeeh." 

 

"Don't give me that! Come--ugh, who--" A second glance, and Ryouma just groans as he recognizes the _thing_ on his tennis court. _This_ kid again. But how? "What do you _want?_ " 

 

Kintarou’s face lights up. “Koshimae! What are you doing here?” He picks up the cat, making it wave one resentful paw at Ryouma. “Look, kitty-chan, this is Koshimae! He’s a really strong guy!”

 

"That's _my_ cat," Ryouma says, bristling visibly as he hops off of the surrounding deck and onto the ground. "Put him down, what are you doing here? This is _my_ house!" 

 

Kintarou laughs. “Even I know this is a shrine! That’s pretty cool, that you have tennis courts in shrines in Tokyo. I wish we did in Osaka!” He looks around, hands laced behind his head. “Hey, I can’t see the hotel from here! Ahhh, I might be lost.”

 

For not the first time, Ryouma hates his dad for his weird housing choices. Karupin seems unconcerned, the traitor, and sits slowly licking one paw. _Always that one paw._ "There aren't any hotels around here. How did you get lost like _that?_ " 

 

“Uhhh, Zaizen said to go get ice, so I went to get ice. Then I saw this tennis court!” There was probably some stuff in between that, but Kintarou can’t remember it all that well. “Hey, if you live here, do you sleep in the bell?”

 

"I sleep in my room," Ryouma exasperatedly replies, scowling accusingly at his cat--Karupin probably encouraged him, rude. "You can't just wander into people's houses at night. Also, that's _my_ tennis court, you can't play on it unless I say you can." 

 

“Cool! I wish I had a tennis court.” Kintarou tickles the cat’s belly, not bothering to snatch his hand back before it gets overstimulated and takes a swipe. He hardly notices. “So, can we play?”

 

Ryouma's eyes narrow. "It's the middle of the night, and I have to play in the finals tomorrow." 

 

Kintarou groans, flopping down onto the court. “What’s the point of having a tennis court if you’re not going to play on it?” he demands. “It can be a warm-up! Just one point!”

 

"That's not a warm-up. I'd beat you in like, five seconds." Karupin is still a traitor, and so Ryouma ignores him (with some effort) when he comes over to rub on his ankles.

 

“You’re on!” Kintarou leaps up without using his arms, grabbing his racket off his back. “Where are the balls?”

 

"…That wasn't an invitation," Ryouma wearily manages, but…ugh, that does sound at least a little better than sitting and staring at a tennis court aimlessly. "Wait a few seconds, I have to go get my racquet, too." 

 

“Just don’t run away!” Kintarou crouches down, pulling out some crumbs from his pocket and laying them in front of the cat. “Hey, does your kitty like gummis?”

 

"Don't feed him that!" Ryouma hisses over his shoulder, and huffs, warily eyeing Karupin once more before trotting back inside. 

 

 _This is a dumb idea, and Tezuka-buchou would kill me if he knew_. Ryouma is pretty sure of that. He's also pretty sure that Kintarou is going to lose, though, which makes him feel a bit better. He grabs his racquet and a new can of balls before stuffing his feet into his shoes at the door. "Here," he grumbles, throwing the can to Kintarou. "Open it, but remember, just one point. It's really late and leave my cat alone." 

 

Kintarou takes the gummi back from the cat after Karupin gives it an experimental lick and flounces away. He shrugs, and pops it in his own mouth, opening the can and grinning at the noise. “We play with the not-pressure ones in Osaka,” he says, and pops one out, testing the bounce on the court. “Here I go, Koshimae!!” 

 

The first serve isn’t anything special. Most of Kintarou’s moves aren’t--he gets the ball over the net and into the other space, and that’s the best part until he can do something really fun.

 

Boring. Ryouma is very sure of his evaluation now, that this one-point game is going to be about five seconds long, and he has to wonder how this guy did anything interesting during the first two rounds of the tournament. 

 

He even has time to make sure that Karupin is out of the way before he hits the ball solidly back with a backhanded slice. Boring, but ah, he wishes his match tomorrow would be like this, in a way.

 

That ball is _easy_ to get. Kintarou whacks it with his racquet, sending it back past Ryouma’s ear, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Take it seriously!” he calls, a grin starting to light up his face. Even bored like the other boy obviously is, there’s a delicacy in his movements that’s...new. Interesting.

 

"Make me," Ryouma grumpily snaps back, backtracking to easily catch that ball, too, even several feet from the baseline, and putting it back into the left corner. Okay, that was better. Maybe Kintarou's kind of slow to start. Still, he's nothing impressive, not like Tezuka-buchou, or Fuji-sempai when he's not being a weirdo, or Atobe-sempai on every day except manicure day. 

 

Kintarou races over to the left corner, flipping and twisting in the air to get to the ball in time, sending it arching high into the air only to slam down just past the net, bouncing up high again. “Koshimae! Nice shot!” he yells, hoping the cat is watching.

 

Who plays tennis like that, anyway? The shots are _stupid_ , and they don't make sense, and it feels more like he's playing some idiot on a sugar high than an actual tennis game.

 

Ryouma _does_ like a ball that's hard to hit, though.

 

He waits for the ball's descending arc--for the most part, but he gets antsy, hits it hard back over the net, straight down the middle of the court. "Stop hitting _weird_ things!" 

 

“Make me!” Kintarou shoots back, parroting Ryouma’s words from earlier. He laughs when he hits the ball, slamming it into the baseline so fast the ball is a yellow streak in the air. His racquet sings in his hand, and his eyes never leave Ryouma’s. That’s where the tennis really is, he knows. Not in the body, but in the eyes.

 

Reflex takes over, and Ryouma dives, catching the ball with the top of his racquet, not the sweet spot, leaving him to curse when it arcs up into a high lob. 

 

That's better, though. Shockingly, that's better, now that he's a little out of breath and his skin prickles with the rush of adrenaline. He _wanted_ an easy point, validation that he can still _play_ , but--

 

This is better.

 

Kintarou’s whole face lights up. He _loves_ lobs. “Watch out, Koshimae!” he calls, leaping into the air for the kind of smash he doesn’t get to do very often. Not the super ultra great delicious mountain storm, not yet, but a smash nonetheless, one with so much momentum he goes into a triple-flip on his way down. 

 

Ryouma is _good_ , and Kintarou can almost taste the excitement. He’d _known_ this was the man he had to play.

 

"What the hell is all that spinning for?!" It's less annoyed now, more of a laugh in his voice, and Ryouma's backhand this time is two-handed, because the power and _weight_ behind that smash makes him have to dig his heels in to return it. 

 

It takes effort to keep precision in his return, but Ryouma manages it, feeling relief course through his body when the shot skims the net lightning-fast, leaves it wobbling a little, and it's _good_ to know that he still has it--not just in a doubles game, but here, on his own court, by his hands only. 

 

“Whoa!” Kintarou jumps for the return, his legs screaming as he dives. There’s something about the way that Ryouma returns every ball that makes Kintarou think he actually _knows_ where every ball is going to go. Well, time to surprise him, then!

 

He lets the top of his racquet skim the ball before sort of scooping it over the net, then hits the ground hard. Right, he’d forgotten he was diving! He pays no attention to the bruises and scrapes, leaping back to his feet to make sure he hasn’t missed anything.

 

"That's not fair," Ryouma protests, launching himself forward, barely catching the ball with his racquet in time--and even with enough effort that leaves him with a face full of dirt, he still isn't sure if he gets it over in time.

 

Actually, he doesn't hear the thud of the ball at all. He blinks, glancing up through his bangs, and finds himself staring incredulously as the ball sits neatly atop one of the net's poles, unmoving. " _How_ ," he crossly mutters underneath his breath, slowly drawing himself to his feet and dusting himself off. "That one doesn't count." 

 

“Let’s play again!” Kintarou says nothing about how they were going to play one point, and only one point. “This time, I won’t hold back!” How can he, when everything he’s ever wanted is in this game?

 

"Fine, let's go!" 

 

Famous last words.

 

The next morning, Ryouma finds himself sort of stumbling off the bus at the stadium, Kintarou attached to him in some way or another. That's fine. What matters is that he got here, managed to take a shower that woke him up for five minutes without Kintarou following him, and that he got here. 

 

It also matters that he played tennis all night with a weirdo from Osaka that's really, really good. 

 

That being said, Ryouma wishes coffee didn't taste so awful, because he could use some of it right now.

 

"I bet your captain--" Time to yawn. Loudly, long, impressively. "I bet your captain's gonna be here looking for you today. You're gonna get in trouble." 

 

Kintarou shakes his head, still a little damp from Ryouma’s shower. “Probably,” he agrees, slumping a little (a lot) against Ryouma’s shoulder. That’s a good place to sleep, even while they’re both sort of walking. “Ne, Koshimae...when you win, I wanna take you out for takoyaki.”

 

 _“That’s what you do with a boy you loooove, Kin-chan!”_ Koharu-nee-san had told him. It sounds about right, just now. Plus, he’s starving. 

 

“Ochibi!” Eiji is the first one to spot him, and he comes running over, grabbing Ryouma and squashing him slightly. “We all couldn’t reach you! We thought we were going to have to send Momo-chan out in Singles One!” He gestures towards the stands, where a trembling white-hatted figure with a unibrow is on his knees in front of Momoshiro, for some reason or another. “I know Yukimura is scary, but…”

 

Ryouma blinks tiredly into Eiji's chest. That's right, Yukimura. He remember that, and it makes him nervous sort of… _distantly,_ but then he thinks of the past few hours of tennis, and he can't quite process why. "Kikumaru-sempai, I'm mostly just sleepy. Can you let me go?" 

 

"Don't say that like you thought I couldn't win!" Momoshiro incredulously shouts back. "Echizen, where the hell have you been? Just because you're scared of Rikkai's captain doesn't mean--"

 

"No. It was tennis." Ryouma wriggles his way free of Eiji's arms, and drifts further into the stadium. "I don't like takoyaki that much. Is it better in Osaka?" 

 

“Mm! It’s the best in the world!”

 

“Kin-chan!” Shiraishi’s voice is suffused with relief. “I told you he’d show up! You monster, were you chasing cats all night again?”

 

“No! I was out with a boy!”

 

Koharu faints. 

 

“Oy, Ryouma!” Atobe strolls over, joining the small throng of people clustered around them. “I went to pick you up, but your father said you’d been gone all night. I thought you’d made a run for it.” He switches to English for Ryouma’s benefit, adding, “If the thought of Yukimura scares you all that much—”

 

"Our baby is growing up! Koharu! Koharu, no, _don't leave me!_ You have to see how cute Kin-chan's boyfriend is!" 

 

Ryouma blinks in open confusion at the no less than fifteen weird things happening around him. "Atobe-sempai," he slowly says, tired enough that he has to think his words through, "do you have any of that _good_ coffee? You know, the kind that doesn't taste all bitter and weird?" 

 

"Echizen." 

 

The throng of people parts, and it's Tezuka that Ryouma finds himself staring up at. "I'm glad to see you made it. I was concerned that you had--"

 

"Atobe-sempai," Ryouma repeats, reaching over to grab his jacket. "Coffee." 

 

Tezuka, world-weary, pushes up his glasses. "Echizen, you can't let your g--"

 

"Inui-sempai, is takoyaki and coffee a good breakfast?"

 

Tezuka twitches.

 

"Doubtful," Inui tosses over. "Also, if you're still concerned about your match, then the caffeine in coffee might make you even more nervous."

 

"I'm just _sleepy_ ," Ryouma grumpily says. 

 

Atobe steers Ryouma sideways, settling him under a conveniently located awning, set up with coffee and pastries, served by a rather perky girl in a maid’s uniform. “From Paris this morning,” he explains, though whether he’s talking about the pastries or the girl is anyone’s guess. 

 

From the other side of the stadium, a strange yowling sound rises, then is abruptly cut off as if the person making it had been elbowed in the gut. Atobe takes a sip of coffee. “Ah, Kunimitsu, something tells me that Sanada has just seen who he’ll be playing in doubles.”

 

Kintarou perks up slightly at the pastries, then looks up at Tezuka. “You’re a captain and you’re playing in doubles?”

 

Tezuka, still frowning from the injustice of not being able to remind Ryouma about keeping his guard up when he's obviously already been letting it down, just shrugs. "For better or for worse." 

 

Ryouma promptly curls himself around something iced and chocolatey, and starts to nibble. Food _does_ seem to wake him up slightly. "Tezuka-buchou can play anything. I bet he could beat your captain." 

 

"Oi, Kin-chan, are you gonna let him get away with saying that?" is Kenya's loud complaint as he marches up, swatting at the back of the kid's head. "Where were you last night?" He's not going to mention that they only found out that Kintarou was gone when Zaizen complained about the lack of ice ten times over. "Hey, food! Thanks, Hyoutei-buchou, give my regards to Yuushi!" 

 

“Ahh, I was playing with a cat and playing tennis!” Kintarou says, drooping a bit after the slap, though still not enough to entirely wake up or detach himself from Ryouma. “And yeah, Shiraishi can beat _anyone_ , he beat your genius Kini-sempai!”

 

Atobe looks slightly put out at the sudden influx of people taking his pastries. “These were _meant_ to be…” he starts, looking at Ryouma and Tezuka, then gives up. They can have a private meal later, when they’re not all so wound up. 

 

“Make sure you eat a lot, Ochibi!” Eiji says, snapping the waistband of his elastic shorts as he finishes getting ready. “That scary Yukimura ate a lot, I saw him! But we’ll try to make sure you don’t even have to play.”

 

“Oy!” Kintarou comes awake finally, stuffing a pastry in his mouth, showering himself with crumbs. “Koshimae isn’t afraid to play tennis with anyone!”

 

"You're all killing my appetite," Ryouma mutters, gnawing on another pastry before washing it down with glorious caffeine. "Atobe-sempai, why is your coffee so much better?" 

 

"For better or for worse," Oishi starts when he hurriedly walks up, clipboard under one arm, "it seems as though Rikkai's ranks aren't exactly well-collected this morning."

 

"There were quite a few arguments about doubles pairs," Inui pipes in, open amusement on his face. "Not with Renji, of course, but…" 

 

"Oh," Fuji breezily says, until now mostly hidden behind everyone courtesy of his height, "I imagine there would be." 

 

There's a pause wherein everyone's gaze snaps towards him. "What did you do?" Oishi immediately asks, wary.

 

"Nooothing."

 

"I don't care," Tezuka says, deadpan, before Oishi can immediately, frantically press for more information. 

 

“That’s because Japanese coffee is about as good as Japanese “cheese,”” Atobe says with a sniff, taking another glorious sip. 

 

Eiji shoves Fuji in the shoulder. “You shouldn’t mess with doubles pairs, nya! That’s a sacred bond!”

 

“It’s true,” Koharu chimes in, putting bits of pastry into Yuuji’s mouth, perched on his lap. “There’s nothing more... _intimate_ than a doubles match.”

 

Quietly, Eiji moves to stand on the other side of Oishi.

 

"I just said I did nothing," Fuji innocently says. 

 

"I don't care," Tezuka repeats, firmer this time. "Echizen, if you're still concerned about your match--"

 

"Whoa, no kidding, this coffee is way better than our stuff! If I had this stuff during my other matches, the Speed Star of Naniwa would have been even _faster_ \--"

 

Tezuka just sits down, giving up. 

 

Ryouma nudges Kintarou's shoulder. "Didn't your team lose to Rikkai last year? That sucks." 

 

“Yeah.” Kintarou grimaces. “I wasn’t there yet! Shiraishi didn’t even get to play, but I bet he would have beaten Yukimura. Right, Kenya?”

 

Given how much Kenya is vibrating at the moment, it might not be for the best to ask him right now.

 

"Hey, Hyoutei-buchou, did Yuushi come today? I bet he did. I'm going. I'm gonna go find him!" 

 

With that, he's gone-- _thankfully_ , Tezuka thinks. 

 

"Uh huh." Ryouma slowly starts feeling like a person again with the next pastry and another sip of coffee. "Yukimura's scary, though. I dunno if your captain could beat him."

 

"Echizen," Tezuka tries for the umpteenth time, "remember what we talked about underneath the railway three months--"

 

Ryouma doesn't seem to hear him. "I still don't wanna play him. Kintarou, come to Seigaku and you can play him." 

 

“Sure! I’ll play Singles One!” Kintarou grabs for his racquet and nearly pulverizes the pastry table, stopped at the last moment by a heavy blow to the back of his neck. “Ow! Oy, watch where you’re—ah, Shiraishi!”

 

“Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says, sounding even more weary than Kintarou despite the fact that he, at least, was not out playing tennis all night, “you’re causing trouble. Come watch with your friends.”

 

“I don’t want to! I’m going to play Yukimura!”

 

“It was a joke, Kin-chan. You have to let Echizen play his match. Sorry for all this commotion,” he says, with a bow to Tezuka and Ryouma, and slings Kintarou over his shoulder. 

 

“No! Stop it! Koshimae, wait for me!”

 

“Seishun Gauen, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku, please line up,” a voice says over the loudspeakers.

 

Ryouma drains the rest of his coffee, and stares after Kintarou, a mix relieved that he's being carried off, and very, very sad. "Buchou." He reaches over, tugging on Tezuka's jersey. "Tezuka-buchou, make him bring Kintarou back."

 

Tezuka opens his mouth, shuts it, and looks helplessly over at Atobe. _Are you making any sense of this._ "…We need to go start our matches now, Echizen." 

 

"Mm." 

 

"Tooyama isn't going to Seigaku." 

 

"He could."

 

Atobe mouths, _Background check in progress_ , and starts furiously texting someone, sneaking a picture of the wild redhead and uploading it to a website private citizens aren’t supposed to know about.

 

Rikkai is a silent, motionless line of yellow and black at the net, all burning eyes and tense muscles. There’s a moment when it looks as if Sanada wants to say something, to step forward, but it passes, and his eyes flick instead to Yukimura in silent deference.

 

It's only when they're at the net that Ryouma feels that anxiety creeping back, slow and obnoxiously cold. He yanks on his hat, letting it obscure his vision, lest those pastries want to come up again. 

 

_Think about last night, and all of this morning, and how fun that was instead. Not about how scary he is, I'm just as good, I can do this._

 

"Bow!" 

 

Rikkai is all perfectly straight backs and uniformity, Seigaku a little less with Momo and Kaidou shoving for a bit more room, and when they straighten, Yukimura's the one that beams brighter than the sun, dissolving an intense amount of tension. "Let's have a good showing today, Tezuka."

 

 _I am the asshole that either can't back up his words, or the asshole that beat cancer kid_ , Tezuka tiredly reminds himself, and reaches out to shake Yukimura's hand. "Let's." Sanada is staring at him. Intensely. It's weird, and not even worth a nod. 

 

“Woohoo!” Kintarou shouts from the stands. “Kick his ass, Koshimae!”

 

“They’re not even playing yet, Kin-chan!”

 

“Ow!”

 

They barely manage to leave the court before the call comes for Singles Three. Kaidou lets out a deep, hissing breath of tension, turning his neck this way and that to loosen himself up. He looks up at Tezuka, that desperation for approval almost naked in his eyes. “I’ll start us off right,” he promises, and tries to imagine the weight of captaincy that will be on his shoulders in just a few months.

 

"Don't let your guard down." At least he can say it to Kaidou, and Kaidou _listens_. "You're more than capable of beating him, Kaidou. Just don't let him rile you up." 

 

Rikkai's side of the stadium, however, could be _more_ collected. 

 

"Buchou! Buchou, I've _got_ this. The last time I played someone like this, it was easy."

 

"I'm aware," Yukimura says, trying not to sound tired or put out about Kirihara's excess energy already coming out at full force, "and that's why you're playing against him right now."

 

More of a concern--Niou and Yagyuu, who haven't made eye contact all morning, and are sitting on opposite ends of the bleachers. _This is not the day for this_. "Show them what Rikkai's next captain is capable of," he says, smacking Kirihara hard on the back. He's not worried about Kirihara; there's no reason to be. "Niou, come here." 

 

Niou slinks over to his seat next to Yukimura, glaring and sulking all at once. He ignores the sound of Kirihara’s weird laughter, and the weirder hissing that follows it. “Yeah, what?”

 

Yukimura's in a hitting mood--Akaya laughing like a deranged banshee inspires it--and thus Niou's shoulder gets a solid smack. "Don't 'yeah, what' me. What the hell is going on with you?" 

 

Niou barely flinches. There are dark circles under his eyes, and he honestly can’t remember the last time he’d had something to eat or drink. “Swap me with Marui. I wanna play Singles.”

 

It's pretty rare that something involving tennis makes Yukimura feel sick to his stomach, but hearing _that_ does, especially when it isn't the first time he's heard it today. 

 

_"Yukimura-kun, please let me play singles."_

 

"Why?" Yukimura spares a look over his shoulder--good, Sanada is too busy staring Tezuka down across the stadium--and sneaks out an energy drink that's stashed in his bag, shoving it into Niou's hands. "I need you in doubles." 

 

Niou turns the bottle over in his hands, a little too fuzzy to quite grasp the concept of what it’s supposed to be. “Put in Marui and Jackal. Unless Jackal thinks Marui is a cheating slut without any proof.”

 

Marui, mostly on instinct, slaps Jackal across the head. “Hey!”

 

Yukimura reaches over, pops the tab on the drink, and shoves it more firmly into Niou's grasp. "You're not hearing me. I _need_ you in doubles. The only other pair that can stand up against Seigaku's Golden Pair is Sanada and Yanagi, and they have their own match to worry about." His voice drops for the next part: "If Yagyuu was an asshole to you, I'll kick him off the team later, but I _can't_ right now, Niou."

 

“Then put me in with fucking Sanada for all I care,” Niou growls, swigging the energy drink. It’s a mark of Sanada’s thousand-mile stare that he doesn’t even blink at that. “Switch Yagyuu for Marui. No, wait, I forgot,” he adds, louder, “he’s so fucking intimidated by Fuji Shuusuke that he’ll probably just pee all over himself.”

 

Yukimura twitches. 

 

With that, something obviously snaps in Yagyuu. "Coming from someone whose dick would be too hard for him to even focus on the ball--"

 

"Enough!"

 

Yukimura's snap is akin to a whip cracking, and most of the team flinches. Simultaneous to that, there's the referee's call of "Game Kirihara, 3 games to 2!" and Yukimura draws in a long, deep breath, folding his arms. "You are going to play doubles," he flatly tells Niou, his eyes sharply flitting to Yagyuu as well. "And you're going to _get over_ whatever the hell is going on for the duration of that match. This is for Rikkai's third consecutive victory, and you are _not going to ruin that_."

 

Yagyuu uncharacteristically slouches down into a ball. Yukimura considers getting Sanada to hit him-- _both of them,_ actually, but with Niou, corporal punishment needs to be applied sparingly. 

 

This is a fool’s goddamned errand, and they all know it. Niou snorts out a bitter, caustic breath, thinking about playing with someone he wouldn’t trust to watch the time, let alone watch his back. 

 

The words _Rikkai’s third consecutive victory_ have honestly never meant less to Niou. It sucks, and Yukimura would kill him, but it just doesn’t seem to fucking matter right now. Yagyuu had touched his face so gently, had been so genuinely surprised that Niou would want to date him, had moved inside him so perfectly, had become him seamlessly with enthusiasm. 

 

And the whole time, he’d been about three seconds away from being positive Niou was fucking around on him, apparently. 

 

“I’d say I would,” Niou says, and even he is surprised by how hard and tight his voice is, “but I can’t be trusted. Duh. I’d think you’d know that. I’m fucking trash.”

 

For a minute, there's a collective--minus Yagyuu, pointedly looking the other way--holding of breath. A rare display of Yukimura's temper is long in coming, and judging by the brief flash of frustrated fury that passes over Yukimura's face, they're all pretty sure it's going to happen. 

 

Instead--"Sanada, Yanagi, make sure you're properly warmed up; doubles two is going to be a wash," Yukimura mutters, stalking away back to the coach's bench, unable to spare Niou another glance. 

 

It comes true like a devastating prophecy.

 

It would be easy to blame it on the fact that no one would ever have expected a Seigaku victory in Singles Three; Rikkai starts shifting when the referee announces a tiebreak, of all things, and Kirihara’s manic energy starts to fade after ten, twenty, fifty points until he makes one final, careless strike after hundreds of good ones.

 

“Game and match, Seigaku’s Kaidou! Seven games to six!”

 

Niou tries to pull it together. His tricks don’t work if he doesn’t have an audience, doesn’t have an assistant, so he tries to go for what Yukimura says, and just play tennis.

 

Except from the first point, he knows it’s useless. Yagyuu doesn’t move with him. Yagyuu doesn’t trust him. Yagyuu is a piece of shit and Niou has to seriously refrain from just beating him with a racquet and playing singles against Kikumaru and Oishi.

 

“Game and match, Seigaku’s Oishi-Kikumaru pair! Six games to three!”

 

Niou disappears from the court. Afterwards, no one will remember which direction he left in.

 

Kirihara is still apologizing. "I'm sorry, Buchou, I'm really sorry--"

 

"Hush." Just because Yukimura is tasting bile doesn't mean that it's Kirihara's fault. He played well. He actually did. He's young, not as experienced, lacks the control, the focus, but _Doubles Two_ \--

 

Kirihara is actually a noodle on the bench, still not quite able to stand. "I'm still sorry--"

 

"Marui," Yukimura interrupts, thinking he's doing a very good job of making it clear that his heart isn't thudding all the way up to his throat. _Not like this, I_ have _to play, we_ have _to win._ He takes a deep breath, and smiles when he claps a hand down onto the other boy's shoulder. "You've got this, don't you?" 

 

Marui pops a bubble, and attempts not to swallow his own tongue out of fear. Sure, he’s a genius, but this is _Fuji Shuusuke_. Marui tries not to hyperventilate, and wishes suddenly that he were in doubles after all. Jackal is so good at being easy to lean on that Marui can pretend he isn’t leaning at all. “Yeah. I’ve got this. I’ve _totally_ got this.” _Am I supposed to be sweating this much?_

 

"You," Yukimura firmly reminds him, refusing to show a single bit of the dread twisting in his belly, "are the best serve and volley player in the country. Fuji hates that about you. Use it to your advantage, stay at the net, make his life a living hell." 

 

"Singles Two, Seishun Gakuen's Fuji versus Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Marui!'

 

For Tezuka's part, he's nothing sort of startled into shocked silence.

 

Oishi and Eiji have been sort of rolling around in the bleachers for the last ten minutes, and that's all well and good for them, but it hasn't really clicked in _his_ head yet that _they actually won_. Kaidou seems to still be acting similarly, with his head down and his eyes wide, and finally, there's an eager thud to his heart that makes Tezuka think they can actually _win this_. 

 

Even if it's because Rikkai is self-destructing--for some reason--he'll take it. 

 

"Fuji." Thank god it's Fuji. He never thought he'd think that, but right now, he does. "You can win this."

 

"Mm." Fuji scritches his fingers slowly into his racquet, and smiles. "I've got this, Tezuka. No worries." 

 

That optimism lasts for a total of about 45 seconds, because Fuji--for some unearthly reason--walks up to the net, shakes Marui's hand, and spares a glance off into what seems to just be space. And then--

 

"I forfeit." 

 

" _What?_ " Momoshiro practically squeaks out, dropping Ryouma from where he's been squeezing him. "Fuji-sempai, what--"

 

Silence, then, but only from Fuji, who hurriedly walks off the court, tosses his racquet aside, and is gone, disappearing down from the bleachers. Everyone else is a flurry of whispers, and it takes Tezuka a long moment to react, his mouth dry, his heart in his throat.

 

Then, he's angry.

 

"Go warm up," he snaps at Inui, who drops his data notebook in his haste, and Tezuka immediately whirls after Fuji, seeing red for the first time in what he knows is years. "What," he _calmly_ attempts, "was that?" 

 

Fuji's shoulders are high and stiff, his expression openly nervous, but Tezuka doesn't care. Tezuka is probably going to kill him. "Tezuka--"

 

" _No_." At some point, he grabs Fuji by the collar of his uniform and shoves him against the stadium wall-- _hard_. The advantage of his height has Fuji dangling a few inches, and Tezuka doesn't care about that, either. "You could have won. _Seigaku_ could have won. Even if you didn't want to play, you should have told me, but instead you walked out there and said that you _forfeited_ and immediately gave them the win!" 

 

"Tezuka, I--"

 

"I said _no._ This isn't just about you!" _If you had played and won, Echizen wouldn't have had to go out there. He wouldn't have had to deal with this. You ruined everything._  

 

Taka is fairly certain that nothing in the world could make him flinch and give up as much as the idea of Tezuka furious. Tezuka is _fantastic_ , he’s inspiring, he’s calm without being cold, and he’s the reason Taka joined the tennis team in the first place. Talking back to Tezuka would be like slapping his father in the face.

 

He doesn’t even hesitate.

 

There’s no space between Tezuka and Fuji, so Taka makes space. He’s a big man even for his fifteen years, and he knows it, putting all of himself in front of Fuji. “Tezuka-buchou,” he says, voice shaking at the sheer insubordination of what he’s done, “don’t touch him again. Please.”

 

Fuji looks like something akin to a scared mouse behind Taka's back, complete with the tell-tale trembling. Tezuka would sic a cat on that mouse. But before that, he wants an explanation.

 

"Singles Two, Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Marui by forfeit! Doubles One, Tezuka-Inui pair versus Sanada-Yanagi pair, please come to the court!" 

 

Tezuka's teeth set themselves into a slow grind, and he says nothing when he whirls away, not even sparing either of them a second glance. 

 

Fuji's knees wobble, and he clings to the back of Taka's jersey, his breathing still far from even. "You didn't have to do that," he says, his voice small. "I deserved it."

 

Taka’s vision spins, and he sinks down to his knees, head in his shaking hands. “I yelled at the captain,” he whispers, eyes wide and horrified. “I did that. I yelled at--oh god, I yelled at Tezuka, I told him what to do, oh god.”

 

He might be rocking back and forth a little bit.

 

Fuji gives up, and flops down next to him, back against the wall. "It was pretty hot," he says, filter gone. "Tezuka is so scary when he's angry. I've had dreams about that before." 

 

Slowly, Taka turns to stare at him, still quivering a bit. “Are you okay?” he asks, a shiver going through him at the memory of Tezuka’s burning eyes. “Did you hurt yourself or something? What did that Marui say to you?”

 

"No. Nothing. I…" Fuji trails off, curling back up against the wall, shivering. "I saw Yuuta. In the stands. I think Mizuki dragged him here." 

 

“Ohh.” The word means more than that, and now, at least, Taka understands. He exhales slowly, and raises a hand, then lets it drop lamely to his side. Touching in this situation seems tricky, and likely to make it worse as much as make it better. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk to him?”

 

"I can't even look at him." Admitting that makes him feel sick, like he's really, really failed somehow, even more so than before, and Fuji looks hesitantly up, obviously nervous about meeting Taka's gaze. "Taka-san…if I tell you something, you have to _promise_ not to tell anyone else."

 

At that, Taka actually looks a little affronted. Barring the honest question about who he would _ever_ tell one of Fuji’s secrets to, the implication…. “You really don’t think I’m trustworthy?”

 

"That's not it. It's…it's not even my secret to tell, is the thing." _But I can't not tell someone._

 

Taka looks around, making sure no one is nearby. They aren’t, at least nowhere close enough to see, though he can clearly hear the referee announce, “Game, Tezuka-Inui pair! Three games to one!” followed by a shout of “Tezukaaaaa!”

 

“Whatever it is,” he says quietly, wondering vaguely whether there’s something less awkward he could be doing with his hands, “I already told you, you won’t scare me away. And I...I don’t think a man should have to say he’s trustworthy--you either are, or you aren’t, you know? So it’s up to you to decide whether to trust me.”

 

"Yuuta came onto me last night." Just saying it makes his stomach give a really unpleasant lurch. "Apparently, he's wanted to be with me for a long time, and I never had any idea. Like--really with me. Like he and Mizuki are. He even told me that he was with Mizuki because he was _just like me_." Ah, he's definitely going to be sick. Fuji shuts his eyes, swallowing hard, and sags down the wall a little more. "It's my fault. I know it's my fault, I…somehow, it just is." 

 

“He--he what?” Taka doesn’t have siblings (a fact for which he’s usually disappointed, and right now grateful), but he’s pretty sure that’s not as common as Fuji is making it sound. “Did he--came onto you--did he hurt you?” He’s a broken record, he knows it, but some things are important, necessary to find out before the conversation can move on, and making sure Fuji is safe is the number one priority.

 

"No. I wish he had put me out of my misery, though," Fuji ruefully says. "I mean, all brocon jokes aside, I'd never…do something like that, you know? But now I don't know what to do." 

 

Taka frowns. “Do? Why do you have to do something?” He scratches nervously at the back of his neck, then admits, “I mean, I don’t know anything about this kind of, uh, situation, but you didn’t do anything, right? So...I mean, he probably just needs to get over it.” And best of luck to him, because Taka knows firsthand how difficult it is to watch Fuji, to want him, and to think that there’s no chance in hell at ever being with him...but be unable to let the idea go anyway. He’d had two years of it, after all.

 

"He's my little brother, Taka-san. I have to do _something_. Listen--you know how you always want to protect me?" Against all logic, obviously. "That's how I'm supposed to be with Yuuta. But…I don't know how to now. If I'm around him, he's upset, and I can't give him what he wants, I even thought about it but that just…" He trails off helplessly, letting his head thunk back against the wall. "Maybe, if I just did it once, and let him get it out of his system…"

 

"Game, Sanada-Yanagi pair! 4 games all!" 

 

"We're going to lose because of me," Fuji tiredly adds. "Which is just great." 

 

Taka swallows down the initial revulsion that comes with the suggestion, trying to think about something, anything else...but no, Fuji needs this, he thinks. He needs to talk about this, and being in a relationship isn’t always laughter and Fuji eating his sushi and correcting his grip. “I think,” he says carefully, “that would only work if...uh, I’m not sure how to say this? But...I mean, _how_ does he want you?”

 

"I don't even know the full extent of it," Fuji admits. "I didn't really want to know. I don't think it's going to work, anyway, Taka-san, so don't look so green. I don't think I could go through with it." He draws a knee up to his chest, setting his chin down onto it. "I bet Atobe knows if there's a balcony around here somewhere. I could throw myself off of it." 

 

“Don’t say that.” That fierce protectiveness extends even to protecting Fuji from himself, which is good, because so far that’s been something of a full-time job. 

 

“Game, Rikkai! Six games to five!”

 

“Listen,” Taka tries again, trying to ignore the score and any excitement about tennis, because it’s _really_ not that important right now, “whatever happens, whatever you want to do—”

 

“Just the rest of the match, it won’t take long,” an unctuous voice wheedles, coming a bit closer. Fuji and Taka are fairly well-concealed by the bleachers, but only on one side.

 

“I didn’t want to come in the first place!” That, unfortunately, is Yuuta, Taka realizes, his stomach sinking.

 

“We can go by the benches, you can say hello to—”

 

“That’s never going to happen! I’m going home--ow, ow, _ow_ , Mizuki-san, that _hurts_ —”

 

"You," Fuji says, grabbing onto Taka's jersey in spite of what he says next, "need to go." Because he really doesn't want Taka to witness any of this conversation, and _he_ doesn't even want to witness it, and there's no telling if Mizuki's going to start talking about restraining orders again and if Taka gets mad enough, there's going to be more _jail time._

 

Taka looks into Fuji’s eyes, then shakes his head firmly. “I’ll stay right here. I won’t do anything unless you want me to, though.” _Or unless someone tries to hurt you, because that’s never going to happen._

 

 _You are such a problem_ is what Fuji wants to say, staring back at Taka with something akin to both frustration and stupid adoration before he pulls away, wobbling up to his feet. "I would have thought someone so dedicated to researching other teams would enjoy a match like this--ah…what was your name again?" He's not going to look at Yuuta, it's better if he doesn't look at Yuuta. 

 

There’s a moment of genuine surprise and apprehension on Mizuki’s face before he quickly covers it, retreating into that slimy demeanor with a little, quiet laugh. His hand is still up, pinching Yuuta’s ear to keep him from bolting, with the taller boy bent over and grimacing.

 

“Fuji Shuusuke-kun,” Mizuki says, about to rub his hands together, but no, one is still busy. How inconvenient, but Yuuta would certainly run if he let go. He casts a look over at Taka, and pretends for Yuuta’s sake that they don’t both know exactly why his brother had abandoned his match. “Ah, a lover’s tryst. Far more important than something as silly as a national finals match.”

 

"There wasn't any need for me to play." Fuji _does_ feel guilty, in spades, because this is Tezuka's dream, this is Ryouma's worries and fears, but…he's selfish, and he knows it, and also, there's a little thing called a flight or fight instinct. "I guess someone from St. Rudolph wouldn't know how that feels." 

 

“Game and match, Rikkai, Sanada-Yanagi pair. Seven games to six.”

 

Taka winces, and tries to hide it. 

 

“You’re right,” Mizuki muses. “No one from _my_ team could possibly understand running out on a match so--stop _squirming_ , it’s distracting!”

 

He gives Yuuta a shake, then lets go, glaring at him. “Are you going to stand there and behave?”

 

Yuuta scowls, looking down at the ground and decidedly not at his brother, rubbing his bright-red ear. “You said we could go after Singles Two.”

 

“It got interesting. Really, Yuuta, you have no curiosity.” Mizuki looks from Yuuta to Fuji, then mentally throws up his hands. “Yuuta, go watch the match. I’ll be back for you soon.” He meets Fuji’s eyes, as if daring him to tell Mizuki not to order his little brother around.

 

Fuji ignores him, and only looks at Yuuta when his back is turned and he's hurrying away, and even then, it makes his stomach flip-flop. "Taka-san, can you please go cheer for Echizen? For both of us?" _Please, I'll be fine, you know that Mizuki couldn't even take down a grasshopper._

 

Taka gives Mizuki a look that he would usually reserve for something at the bottom of a very deep trench. “I’ll be right over there,” he says, and hopes Fuji understands just how fast he can move if he has to. 

 

“What a fine specimen of a man he is,” Mizuki says with a little smile, watching Taka take to the stands. “Tall, broad, short brown hair, darker skin, square forehead...we really do have a similar type, don’t we, Shuusuke-kun?”

 

"I'm actually going to pull out one of your teeth and make you eat it," Fuji calmly tells him. "What do you want?" 

 

The oily smile wavers for a second, then disappears. Mizuki looks around as if to make sure no one is watching him being considerate, and his body language changes. The hip comes un-cocked, the arms fold, the shoulders go down, and the head comes forward. It’s exhausting, actually giving a shit about someone instead of just toying with them constantly, and the strain is wearing on him, eating away at the pretense whenever he forgets to maintain control. “I wanted to find out what actually happened between the two of you,” he says, voice less affected than usual. “He’s been hysterical every time I tried to talk to him, and I’m really quite sick of cleaning up his vomit.” 

 

Especially since he has an overly-sympathetic gag reflex, so every time he hears retching, his body feels compelled to add to it. Highly inconvenient and messy.

 

Fuji wonders if he's supposed to feel sorry for Mizuki, but he doesn't. Only in one regard, and that's that apparently Yuuta calls out _his_ name when Mizuki's fucking him, but then again, _Mizuki is fucking his little brother_ , and that kills all pity. "If you really cared about him," Fuji says without batting an eye, "you would lovingly clean up his vomit all the time."

 

“I don’t feel the need to prove anything to you,” Mizuki lies. “I just want to know if I should bother trying to get him to talk to you, or if your relationship is a lost cause from now on.”

 

Pathetic, that he’d been so affected. It had been so easy to use Yuuta, to manipulate him into everything Mizuki had wanted, and it had been a rush to be _right_ about him.

 

That rush, of being able to play the younger boy like a particularly well-tuned flute, had disappeared the first time Yuuta had let him see just how fucked-up he truly is inside. Mizuki had been playing with his puppet’s strings, sure--but he isn’t the one who’d tied them there.

 

Fuji wonders if this garners an actual conversation. He doesn't think so, but he's here now, and really tired, and sick to his stomach and honestly wants to go watch Ryouma's match. He'd so much rather be focused on tennis, on winning, but--"I don't know what to do," he finally says, his shoulders sagging, briefly shutting his eyes. He doesn't want to admit this to Mizuki. He doesn't want to admit this to _anyone_. "I can't give him what he wants. I won't. So I don't know what to do." 

 

Mizuki gives him a long, inscrutable look, then nods slowly. “Go watch your first-year’s match. I know you’ve thrown away my number, but it’s in your cell phone. I’ll meet you tonight, late.”

 

That sounds very unappealing. "Why? So you can tell me how horrible of a brother I am at length?" 

 

Mizuki rolls his eyes, and gestures around at the stadium. “Would you rather talk about your very particular brand of familial closeness _here_?”

 

"You assume I ever want to talk about it." Fuji sighs, shrugging. What does he have left to lose, anyway? "Fine, so long as it isn't a talk about how you can be more like me to appease him."

 

Mizuki’s lip curls, and he huffs out a breath. “I do hope you won’t mind if I refrain. I like to think I am a great deal more tolerant of certain things than the next man, but….” He spreads his hands. “Even I have my limits, whether that is a surprise to you or not.”

 

"It is a surprise, thanks." _Why, why, why are you dating him, Yuuta; he's awful, he's the worst. He's just like me._ "I'll see you tonight." 

 

The way that sentence makes Mizuki laugh quietly to himself is a very good reason why they should never meet, and Mizuki disappears back to the stands to grab Yuuta. “Until tonight, Fuji Shuusuke-kun.”

 


	24. Echizen vs. Yukimura

"Sorry, Tezuka." 

 

That begs the question of why Inui is still talking to him. Tezuka doesn't glance up when he drops down onto the bench, a towel slung around his shoulders, arm throbbing. Psychosomatic? He'd usually say yes, but right now, he doubts it. Sanada's shots hurt, and after essentially playing against both Sanada and Yanagi by himself--

 

"Tezuka." 

 

And now Fuji is back, looking more subdued than usual, somewhat huddled into his jersey, and Tezuka forces himself to glance up and act like a captain for five seconds at the very least. 

 

"I'm really sorry." 

 

"There's no point in dwelling on it now," he dully says, and his eyes slide away to Ryouma instead--nervous, but not entirely the jittery mess that he had assumed he would be. 

 

Ryouma, for his part, finds himself oddly relieved at Tezuka's loss. _It's not just me that can't win against Sanada_ is the thought that firmly echoes in his mind, but at the same time…Yukimura isn't Sanada. 

 

Also, Tezuka's loss means that he _does_ have to play after all. 

 

Ryouma tilts his head back, glancing up at Kintarou, who sort of is dangling over the railing of the bleachers. "You could join Seigaku's team right now," he suggests, knowing Kintarou's going to take it really seriously, and that's funny. "And play Rikkai's scary captain so you and I could play instead." 

 

"Oi, don't tell him things like that! He's gonna believe you!" Kenya hisses. 

 

“Yeah!” Kintarou, unfortunately, is just as gullible as his team seems to believe. He leaps down from the bleachers and grabs Ryouma’s jersey off of the chair, tugging it on with a grin as he runs onto the court. “Yukimura! Come have a match with me, if you’re not scared!”

 

The referee looks somewhat startled at the appearance of an unscheduled player in a Seigaku jersey. “The Singles One Match will begin,” he announces, a little doubtfully.

 

Ryouma sits back down, rather pleased. 

 

"Echizen." Tezuka wants to kill himself more than usual. "You realize this grand scheme of yours isn't going to work."

 

"But what if he wanted to transfer like, right now. What are the rules?"

 

"Echizen. You need to become Seigaku's pillar of--"

 

"I'm just asking. For a friend."

 

Sometimes, Tezuka is rather strongly reminded of the fact that Echizen Ryouma is 12 years old. He supposes not all 12 year olds were like him, and building cabins in the dead of winter. "Please go play your match."

 

"It's fine," Yukimura calls over, and Tezuka really, _really_ wishes that he were dead. He would like it more if Yukimura _didn't_ get these kind of jokes. "It's not like the bench coach gets a chance to go and warm up, so this'll do! Touyama Kintarou, wasn't it?" 

 

Something about the force of nature that is Yukimura Seiichi gets through to the referee, and he nods. “Ten minute break! Players, warm-up!”

 

“Yahoo!” Kintarou does a flip onto the court, brandishing his racquet at Yukimura. “Yeah! Touyama Kintarou! And I’m the one who’s gonna knock that rice off your head!”

 

Behind him somewhere, he can hear the familiar sound of Shiraishi sighing. Shiraishi sighs at the weirdest things.

 

"Uh huh," Yukimura says. Rice. That's a new one. "Let's play to one point, then." 

 

For some reason, Ryouma looks even _more_ pleased than he did before. 

 

"Echizen," Fuji says, dangling over the bleachers a little. "Is that your new boyfriend?"

 

"Shut up, Fuji-sempai."

 

"Your taste is lacking."

 

"Shut up, Fuji-sempai."

 

"Isn't he a little high strung for you?"

 

"Shut up, Fuji-sempai." 

 

Tezuka wonders if Atobe has performed that background check or not, and also, how Yukimura Seiichi can be so fucking calm and keep delaying a match that will determine who _wins or not_. Wouldn't it be better to just get it over with? 

 

"I played him for a solid six hours last night," Ryouma says triumphantly. 

 

"Great." Because Tezuka _loves_ hearing that his ace is exhausted. 

 

“Coffee for you,” Atobe says firmly, pressing a cup into Ryouma’s hand. “And medicine for you,” he says, pressing a couple of unmarked white pills into Tezuka’s hand. They’re aspirin, but with the words scraped off, and his beloved Kunimitsu is so vulnerable to the power of suggestion. Atobe’s seen him “high” off of a single tablet of ibuprofen before. 

 

Kintarou whirls in the air as if he doesn’t need to land, laughing and leaping and hollering, and Atobe silently passes Tezuka the report. “Ryouma,” he says, trying to be somewhat politically correct, “are you actually...interested in the Touyama boy? I’ve had a chat with his Captain, you see.”

 

Ryouma blinks up at Atobe, huddled around his cup of coffee and obviously not quite getting it. "Interested?"

 

Tezuka swallows both tablets dry, and tries not to cringe at the report in his hand. Why couldn't Ryouma decide to like someone at least a _bit_ smarter. 

 

Ryouma's gaze flickers to the match, though he pointedly only watches Kintarou, _not_ Yukimura, because Yukimura still makes something tense and unpleasant twist up in his belly. It's hard not to watch every precise return, though, and Ryouma secretly wishes _he_ had been returning Kintarou's shots with that much control. "Why were you talking to his captain? We just played tennis a little." 

 

Atobe isn’t entirely sure what to say about that, except that it’s not _normal_ to show up exhausted and clinging to a stranger as if he’s the only lifeline you’re ever going to get. Instead, he shrugs. If Ryouma wants to make weird mistakes, he’s really already made the worst one. He doubts anything Touyama Kintarou does could compare to Fuji Shuusuke. “The phrase ‘as a box of hammers’ came up,” he does try, but hell, Ryouma’s right--the kid _can_ play tennis.

 

And then it happens.

 

Atobe sees it out of the corner of his eye, the way Kintarou stumbles, the way his shot almost goes out because of it. He sighs, and stands, patting Tezuka on the good shoulder. “Won’t be long now. The boy is lost.”

 

Tezuka wants to ask _where did we go wrong, why does Echizen like this one_ but more important is the way that Ryouma tenses up and sits up and watches, now openly nervous. 

 

"He _can't_ get the yips. He's…" _Too good, it must be something else._  

 

"Everyone does, eventually," Tezuka quietly says, and Ryouma swallows the last of his coffee in one gulp.

 

"There we go!" Yukimura just has to sound so _cheerful_ when he finally hits a cord ball and sends it neatly toppling over, far too close to the net for a less-than-coherent Kintarou to reach in time. "Ah--careful, Touyama, don't fall down." 

 

Tezuka glances over to Ryouma to tell him to get ready, that he'll be fine (even if he probably won't), but Ryouma's already gone, racquet in hand, trotting out to the court and grabbing Kintarou by the arm to steady him. "What," he says underneath his breath to Atobe, "inspired him to like that one so much." 

 

“Clearly, we’ve gone wrong somewhere,” Atobe says with a tragic little sigh. He looks at Tezuka’s face, and no, those stress lines are no good at all. He sends off a few text messages, one to Tezuka’s mother (in his phone as _Kaachan_ ), one to his pilot, and one to the caretaker at his summer home in the Alps. Yes, that should do nicely to take care of those wrinkles before they become permanent. Ah, he shudders at the thought.

 

On the court, Kintarou’s hand fists in Ryouma’s jersey, eyes wide and unseeing. “N-no,” he mutters, frowning as he stumbles, leaning against Ryouma, “let me keep going, I can--I can do it! Where’s the ball? I can do it,” he insists, even as his hands are shaking so badly he nearly drops his racquet. “Just a little more, I can do it, I can do it for Koshimae!”

 

"I _told you_ he was scary," Ryouma mutters, slinging an arm around Kintarou to better steady him and taking his racquet from him before he can drop it. Ugh, he doesn't like this. He was hoping that it was all a fluke, that it wasn't always like this--but apparently, it is, and there's that feeling of dread clinging to him anew, especially when Yukimura drifts back over to the bleachers and seems content to casually chat with Sanada for the moment. "It's fine, Kintarou. Just don't make me carry you off the court. You're heavy." 

 

Strong arms lift Kintarou into the air, even as he mutters again, “No, I can do it! I can play, I can still—”

 

“Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says, kindly, “it’s time to let Echizen have his match. Come sit with your friends.”

 

It’s probably a mark of how shaken Kintarou is that he turns his head, burying his face into his Captain’s shoulder instead of protesting further. Shiraishi gives Ryouma a gentle smile, hoisting Kintarou onto his hip with one arm, patting Ryouma on the shoulder with a bandaged hand. “Good luck in your match, Echizen. Yukimura Seiichi likes it when his opponents give up. Don’t make him too happy, ne?”

 

“Ochibi! You can do it! Do your best!”

 

“Don’t lose, Echizen!”

 

“Good luck, Ryouma-kun!”

 

 _No, bring him back_ , Ryouma petulantly thinks, stopping himself before he can lift a hand up and kind of grab at the back of Kintarou's jersey (it's his own, because the weirdo stole it, but…). He draws in a deep breath, yanks his hat down instead, and stalks up to the net. 

 

Yukimura, as per usual, is all smiles. "I'll never really understand how you all can play with hats on. Don't they get in the way?"

 

Ryouma scowls. "You play with that stupid jersey on your shoulders."

 

Yukimura straightens it for good measure. "At least it doesn't get in the way." 

 

Ryouma glowers at him, mentally vowing to knock that thing off because Kintarou couldn't and that's not _fair_ , and whirls on his heel to head back to the baseline without offering Yukimura a handshake. _If he knows how much I'm shaking right now, I'm done for._

 

"Singles One, Seishun Gakuen's Echizen versus Rikkai Dai Fuzoku's Yukimura! Echizen to serve!"

 

_Just remember what it was like to play with Kintarou. Remember what it's like to play with Atobe. I'm just as fast, just as good, no, I'm better, I'm--_

 

His first serve is sent screaming over the net--and then back, just as fast, just as hard, slicing by his ear and leaving his breath to catch in his throat. 

 

"Love-15!" 

 

_I can turn this into a war of attrition. If I can take him to a tiebreak, like Atobe-sempai--_

 

"There it is, the twist serve!" 

 

_Stop calling my attacks, this isn't a manga._

 

"Love-30!" 

 

If it were a manga, it wouldn't be a very satisfying one. 

 

Atobe is on the verge of asking Kabaji for a Valium. This is more than nervewracking, this is _Ryouma_ , this is their _child_. A quick sideways look to Tezuka shows he’s not alone in feeling this, and it’s not easy to keep from shouting out advice, encouragement, and other useless phrases.

 

That doesn’t stop Seigaku, of course. It also doesn’t stop Kintarou, as soon as he manages to shake off his yips. His voice is one of the loudest in the stands, and Atobe doesn’t miss the way he turns his head to the side sometimes, burrowing deeper into his stolen jersey. 

 

There’s already a slump of nerves to Ryouma’s shoulders, and Atobe wants to cringe...until he sees Ryouma’s face. 

 

“Oshitari,” he calls, turning to his other side. “A million yen on Echizen.”

 

"You're nuts," Oshitari snorts, leaning forward to better talk over the growing din. "Whatever was bugging Yukimura against Kabaji the other day isn't bothering him here." 

 

"Game, Yukimura!"

 

"See?" Oshitari smugly says. 

 

"Echizen losing his service game right off the bat…" Oishi worriedly trails off, sinking down into his seat. 

 

"He's done that before," Fuji says with a little shrug. "Don't stress about it yet." 

 

From what Ryouma remembers of their match late at night in Tokyo, Yukimura's serve isn't anything special. He's right, of course, but that doesn't make it any easier to control Yukimura's _returns_ , which are much more vicious in their own way, considering how they gnaw at his nerves and…

 

His vision briefly goes out of focus, and he breathes in a deep, ragged breath, gritting his teeth and forcing his mind to come back. 

 

"15-love!"

 

"30-love!"

 

"40-love!"

 

A thought flickers through Ryouma's mind, and he spares a brief, fleeting glance up into the stands at Kintarou, just in time for the next ball to rocket past him. 

 

"Game, Yukimura! 2-0!"

 

"Che," Ryouma mutters, yanking on his hat, and his toe scuffs the ground as he stumbles. He can feel Yukimura watching him, fucking _analyzing_ him, and while that makes him nervous, he's _noticed_ something. It's just time to test it.

 

The serve he hits over has a wobble to it. It's not focused and clear, like he _can't_ focus on it, like he can't really connect with the ball, and the return of it--softer, bored, less of that sharpness and mastery--is something that proves he's right.

 

If he _fakes_ he has the yips, Yukimura's not going to play like he needs to give them to him. Now, to get points…that's going to take some luck, but he can do this. Ryouma stumbles for the next ball, but hits it, much to Yukimura's obvious surprise, and it smacks the top of the net before toppling over, just inside of the right line. 

 

"15-love!" 

 

Atobe hisses out a breath in something like sympathy. It’s a lucky shot, that much is obvious, and damn, but it’s a good thing he doesn’t need that million yen. Oshitari will probably blow it all on romance novels and read them to his cousin over the phone.

 

_Come on, Ryouma. You can snap out of it._

 

“Ochibi…” Eiji whispers, gnawing on his lip, fingernails digging into Oishi’s arm.

 

All around the stadium, people sit tensely, watching, nervous, fatalistic. All except for one person, who just laughs. “Nice one, Koshimae!”

 

“Kin-chan, I don’t think he can hear you.”

 

“NICE ONE, KOSHIMAE!!”

 

Tezuka has to tear away his eyes away from the match at hand--because his heart is twisting up in his chest and he wishes he were dead ten times over--and just _look_ at Atobe. _Where did we go so, so wrong._  

 

"He means that he literally can't hear you, dumbass," Zaizen mutters, rapidly thumbing through the next stage of his phone game. "That's what happens. Would've happened to you, if you kept playing." 

 

"Oi, Zaizen, if you don't put that up, I'm gonna smack you," Kenya threatens, and Zaizen begrudgingly pockets his phone. Kenya slaps his ass anyway. 

 

"15 all!"

 

 _You're_ so _loud,_ Ryouma dimly thinks in Kintarou's direction, taking in a slow, calming breath before he hits his next serve. Hitting them deliberately slower than usual isn't fun, but it seems to be making a dent on Yukimura's willingness to be so calculating when he plays. _That's_ what he needs. Another hurried fumble for the return, and he hits it--luckily--right down the center of the court, Yukimura's backhand missing it by a hairsbreadth. 

 

"30-15!"

 

"Hmm." Fuji leans forward, chin in one hand. "Echizen's being cute."

 

"You're so weird sometimes, Fuji-sempai," Momoshiro mutters, gripping the railing of the bleachers tightly. 

 

"Yes. But I'm also not wrong." 

 

"Eiji, you're drawing blood, please stop." 

 

“Game, Echizen! One game to two!”

 

Eiji’s nails retract like claws when he stands, cheering wildly. “Yeah! Ochibi, FIGHT!”

 

“KOSHIMAE!!!! YOU’RE DOING—”

 

“Kin-chan, I’m going to make you wait from two stadiums away and he’ll still hear you.”

 

A bottle of water makes its way into Yukimura’s field of vision. Niou still looks tense, angry, disappointed, guilty, and disgusted, crouching next to the bench as the players take a break. “He’s faking.”

 

Yukimura's eyebrows raise, and he lifts a hand to take the bottle of water. He refuses to guzzle it--he feels good, he firmly tells himself, if not a little sore. It's just _hot_. "You'd know a lot about that, I suppose." 

 

He's not really done being mad yet, apparently. A glance to the stands gives him a good reason to hold firm to that, because Yagyuu's face is still on the ground in a permanent bow. _Good_. 

 

“Yeah. I would. And I’m better at it than he is. I’m shitty at tennis but I’m a good fucking liar, so take it from a liar.” The bitterness in Niou’s voice is palpable.

 

"You're good at tennis." Yukimura gives up, and dumps the rest of his water out over his head, shaking it off like a dog afterwards. "You're awful at people, and that makes me really sad."

 

"Players, resume! Yukimura to serve!"

 

Yukimura's eyes follow Ryouma as he makes his way back to the court--unsteady, but not overly so. There's still a marked degree of control there, and Yukimura sighs, irritated that Niou is right. 

 

Fine, then. 

 

It takes more effort to make his serve something faster and more brutal, but he's tired of this game already. He wants to be done with it. He wants to win, to have _his_ trophy, because no other team's name belongs on there, and he's tired of this _brat_ \--

 

"15-love!" 

 

"Yukimura-buchou's mad," Kirihara nervously mutters. 

 

Ryouma dives for the next serve, obvious seeing it clearly, and Yukimura yanks on his jersey, straightening it on his shoulders. 

 

"30-love!" 

 

"Play me outright, or just go ahead and forfeit, boy," he flatly orders, and Ryouma stiffens, his grip visibly tightening when Yukimura serves again. 

 

"I," Oshitari announces to Atobe, "am going to buy _so many_ romance novels when I win this bet." 

 

"40-love!" 

 

Tezuka shuts his eyes. "Atobe, do you have any _other_ narcotics?" 

 

"40-15!" 

 

Tezuka's eyes open again, and Ryouma's chest is heaving, his face smeared from dirt as he picks himself up. "I played someone better last night," he declares, wiping his face and smudging dirt more over his nose in the process. "Your movements are pretty bad, Kami no Ko-san." 

 

A little thrill runs down Tezuka's spine. "Never mind," he mutters underneath his breath, leaning forward slightly, trying not to be _intensely_ amused when Yukimura rips his jersey off and throws it into Kirihara's face. 

 

"40-40!"

 

"Advantage, receiver!"

 

"Game, Echizen! Two games all!" 

 

"How much," Tezuka asks very seriously, reaching over to grab Atobe's knee, "did you work with him when it came to stamina." 

 

“Enough to beat Sanada that way.” Atobe’s eyes are a little wider, lighting up now at the sight of Ryouma standing up, fighting back. “I never dreamed Yukimura would be well enough to play, but he’s never been fond of long matches. Kunimitsu...if he can hold on…”

 

_He has a chance._

 

Kintarou, for his part, fumes with jealousy. Whoever Ryouma had played last night must have been _really_ good, maybe the _best_.

 

Eiji, Momo, and a reluctant Kaidou start following the first-years in their cheers, chanting Ryouma’s name more enthusiastically as the match goes on. The banners flap above; _National Tournament Final Match._

 

“Rikkai!” Sanada bellows, every muscle in his shoulders corded to the point of breaking. “I don’t _hear you!_ Yagyuu, get up and cheer or I’m going to kick your face through that dirt!”

 

"Game, Yukimura!"

 

"Game, Echizen!"

 

"Four games all!" 

 

"Five games all!" 

 

"Are you _kidding me_ ," Momoshiro whispers incredulously, and hurriedly leans over the bleachers to toss Ryouma a bottle of water--then a second one, when the first one becomes a makeshift shower. "Echizen, you're already drenched, don't make it worse!"

 

"Do you have _any_ idea how hot it is, Momo-sempai," Ryouma groans, flopping down onto the bench and just throwing his hat down, giving up on wearing it. His face is flushed red, and sweat is clinging to weird places--like his eyelashes, which makes it pretty hard to see at times. _Just two more games. If I can just win two more games…_

 

Ah, he's dizzy, though. Playing Yukimura isn't just a physical game, but a mental one, and constantly being on guard like that makes him tired in ways he'd _never_ thought he could be. 

 

"Atobe-sempai." He leans his head back, peering up at the other boy. "You make this look a _lot_ more stylish than it really is." 

 

Atobe hands over a microfiber towel, wiping gently at Ryouma’s face. “I make everything look more stylish than it is,” he says, in what sounds from the tone to be a consoling statement. Then he leans down, close to Ryouma’s ear, and adds, “You are making it look dreadfully arousing, though.” 

 

He’s not making it up. The tenseness of his muscles, the sweat dripping from him, and above all, that fierce, determined light in his eyes...yes. This is the Echizen that Atobe had wanted to reach out and touch.

 

“You’re kicking his ass, Koshimae!” Kintarou sounds delighted, hurling himself down to the bench next to Ryouma, wrapping an arm around him and squeezing hard. “There’s no one better than you at tennis! You’re making that big gorilla spit out his teeth!”

 

Sanada, on the Rikkai side, is standing behind Yukimura, wiping his forehead, snapping harshly at first-years that aren’t moving fast enough with sports drinks. “You have him on the run,” he says, confident as only he can be, even when he can feel Yukimura trembling from the exertion. “He can’t last much longer, not against the Child of God.”

 

Hearing Sanada isn't all that easy over the weird, dull roar in his ears. "Just two more games," Yukimura mutters, exhaling a long breath when he looks skyward. When was the last time he started counting games like that? Ah, that's awful. Just two more, two more, _two_ \--

 

"You've _got this_ , Yukimura-buchou!"

 

"Come on, Captain, you can do it!"

 

"Invincible Rikkai Dai! Always win, always win, Rikkai Dai!" 

 

 _Right, now for standing up_. 

 

Yukimura wobbles for a split second, catching himself with his racquet. His legs burn, because no amount of endurance training over the past three weeks makes up for disuse over a period of eight months. His entire back feels like it's on fire, and squaring his shoulders pulls and tugs at muscles that feel like they're wrapped into little knots. 

 

_Two more games._

 

It's _way_ too hot.

 

"You'd think," Yagyuu mutters, the first thing he's said that isn't apologizing and cheering for awhile, "that they'd postpone this courtesy of the heat." 

 

"It's not going to be any colder tomorrow," Jackal wearily points out. "It is what it is, I guess." 

 

"You're both being lame!" Kirihara snaps. "For Yukimura-buchou, it doesn't matter! Come on, cheer _louder!_ " 

 

"Players, resume! Echizen, to serve!"

 

Yukimura is fairly certain the little shit throws a wink off to the sidelines, and he briefly wishes something horrible on whoever is dating the brat. 

 

"15 all!"

 

"30 all!"

 

"40 all!"

 

"Advantage, receiver!"

 

 _Every damned match_ , Yukimura thinks in palpable frustration, wiping sweat from his eyes, his chest heaving, his grip white-knuckled. _Why?_

 

"Advantage, server!"

 

"Game, Echizen! 6 games to 5!"

 

Yukimura hates the way his heart sinks, _knowing_ this has to go to a tiebreak now if he wants to win. 

 

When the game count reaches six games all, and the tiebreak begins, Sanada’s heart sinks, too.

 

He knows that cocky placement of Echizen’s step, and he knows the way he’s squaring up before serving. He knows it, because he’s _played_ it--not in the Kantou, but a few weeks ago. It hasn’t been there the whole time, but as soon as the words _tiebreak_ were spoken, it had come out.

 

Sanada’s eyes burn over the court, and sure enough, there is Atobe Keigo, sitting next to the Seigaku team, leaning forward and far too concerned for a rival captain. _That bastard has tutored him!_

 

Yukimura is strong. Yukimura is graceful, accurate, intense, and everything that a man should ever want to be--but his strongest point is not stamina. Technique, mental strength, and to some degree speed--Sanada would put Yukimura up for those against any tennis player in the world, up to and including Federer, and he’s only a little blinded by pure, loving devotion. 

 

Briefly, when he sees the look on Niou’s face, he even stops wanting to murder him. _This is your fault, he thinks,_ and Niou knows it without hearing the words. _But at least you’re as terrified as I am._

 

“Fuck winning,” Niou says, quiet and dangerous, eyes locked on Yukimura. “Come on, Boss, just _walk out of there.”_

 

“COME ON KOSHIMAE! JUST TWO MORE POINTS!”

 

“32-33!”

 

“54-55!”

 

“67 all!”

 

Atobe feels like _he’s_ playing, or running a gods-be-damned marathon. His heart is in his throat, and he dispenses with pretense, clinging to Tezuka’s sleeve. “He’s going to win,” he whispers one moment, and the next, “He’s going to die!”

 

There's sweat in his eyes, down his neck, matting his hair to his head and leaving him feeling like he's drowning. Breathing in deep doesn't help, but hitting the ball does, and Ryouma simply gives into the urge to throw himself full body into every single swing, because that gets the ball _over_. 

 

"Come on, Echizen!"

 

"Yukimura-buchou, just _two more!"_

 

"75-74!"

 

Tezuka just has to sit back for a moment, disbelieving, as out of breath as Atobe is next to him, and he can't help but point out, a laugh almost in his voice: "He's already doubled _our_ record." 

 

"80-81!"

 

"One more, one more, one more, one more--"

 

It's the same thing repeating in Yukimura's own head, when he arches back to serve. 

 

 _One more_. 

 

He tastes sweat, blinks it hard off of his lashes, the slipperiness of his racquet in his own hand annoying and distracting. His hair won't stay out of his face, his knees refuse to bend enough, and the ball just doesn't connect well with his racquet anymore. _That's not my fault. The strings are done, I'll switch after this if I need to._

 

"Fault!"

 

There's a slew of whispers when the ball hits the net, and on the other side of the court, Ryouma just shrugs, rocking back on his heels. 

 

"Rikkai's captain can't even serve anymore!"

 

"He's done for--"

 

Yukimura's teeth grind. 

 

"It's fine, Captain! Come on, one more point, one more point!"

 

 _I know that already, I_ know.

 

"Double fault! 81 all!" 

 

"Yukimura-buchou!" 

 

Back to square one. That's what this whole match feels like, and it's surreal. Yukimura draws in a slow, deep breath, and that hurts, too. Sweat drips down his spine, stinging, and he twists his arm briefly back to make sure he's not bleeding. He is, but not enough for the referee to see. Good enough.

 

Right. Progress. He always likes to see progress in everything, but there's none of that here, not now, not _ever_ \--

 

His knees wobble, his head pounds, and that's _definitely_ the ground that he's suddenly on. His stomach flips, and he only barely keeps his breakfast down when he rolls onto his back, chest heaving. 

 

 _Get_ up, _Seiichi._

 

Except getting an elbow underneath himself doesn't work, and his stomach flips again, his vision blurring. _Just a few more minutes, damn it, I can do this._  

 

_“YUKIMURA!”_

 

In the future, Sanada will never remember whether it was his own voice, Niou’s, Kirihara’s, Marui’s, or all of the team together. 

 

It’s all of the team together that charge onto the court, ignoring the referee, ignoring the tiebreak and the score and Rikkai’s third consecutive win. They crash into each other, seven men headed to one point, and no one even notices. 

 

It’s Sanada, though, that gets his arms under Yukimura, lifts him bodily, feels the odd way Yukimura is both tense and limp at the same time, and holds him protectively to his chest. 

 

“Rikkai’s Yukimura, forfeit. Game and match, Seigaku’s Echizen!”

 

The roar of delight from the blue and white side of the arena can’t match the roaring in Sanada’s ears, and he touches Yukimura’s feverish cheek. “Yukimura. Seiichi, talk to me, say something!” There’s a car waiting for them, waiting to take them to the cabin on top of a mountain, and none of it means anything if Yukimura has ripped himself open.

 

Kirihara, still clutching Yukimura's jersey--now, rather tear-soaked--worriedly points out, "S-Sanada-fukubuchou, he's _bleeding_ \--"

 

"Am not." There's a mental disconnect even when he's heard the game call, when he's _heard_ Seigaku's cheering. Yukimura can see--albeit through a sort of blurry filter--the whole of Seigaku's team rush the field, grabbing Echizen up, tossing him in the air--"Put me down," he firmly orders, one trembling hand pushing against Sanada's chest, "and let me play."

 

"Tournament doctor or ambulance?" Jackal hushedly asks Sanada, not _entirely_ sure of how much a scene they should be causing when Yukimura's still _conscious_. 

 

"This year's winner of the Boy's Junior High Tennis National Tournament, Seishun Gakuen!"

 

"You'd think they could turn the volume down or something," Kirihara mumbles, sniffling. 

 

“Ambulance,” Sanada says firmly, when he sees that Yukimura still isn’t entirely aware that they’d lost. He attempts to set Yukimura onto his feet, but there’s no tension in him that says he can carry himself, and Sanada picks him back up again immediately. “Seiichi,” he says, willing his voice to be steady for Yukimura, for all of them, “it’s over. You fought bravely.” He ducks his head for a moment, feeling the tears spill down his cheeks, and looks around at his team, dredging up determination from a place he hadn’t known he had. “We all fought bravely. Line up!”

 

Then again, compared to the idea of Yukimura dying, this doesn’t seem nearly as bad as he’d anticipated.

 

Even Tezuka’s face flushed with happiness doesn’t induce the same kind of rage he’d been expecting, not when Yukimura is half-conscious in his arms and, of course, he _had_ beaten Tezuka earlier...which is _not_ important right now, he reminds himself.

 

Kirihara looks all the world like he wants to start booing Seigaku and their happy faces, but for once, he thinks twice. Seeing his captain lose--seeing how he is right now, worse by the minute, now mostly limp in Sanada's arms…it's a shocking, _weird_ slap to the face. "Sanada-fukubuchou," Kirihara hurriedly says, tapping him firmly on the shoulder. "Jackal-sempai is calling the ambulance, you go out to meet it, I'll get the medal and do the ceremony stuff, I'm next year's captain, I should be responsible." 

 

"Hey, Koutei-san." 

 

There's a collective raising of hair on the backs of all of the Rikkai regular's necks when Ryouma approaches their little throng, and he actually hesitates, lurching his weight back away from them. "I just wanted to shake his hand," he awkwardly, huffily says, scuffing one toe against the court. "And yours, Sanada. I forgot, last time." 

 

Sanada moves carefully, arranging Yukimura over one shoulder so he has a free hand. First, he claps Kirihara on the shoulder, strong and proud. “You’ll be a good Captain,” he says, and means it.

 

Then, though it takes all his pride, he nods to Echizen Ryouma, holding out his hand. “We had a good match,” he says finally, glaring at any of his team that want to say anything else. He knows without asking that Yukimura isn’t exactly capable of shaking hands right now, and instead says for him, “He’ll shake yours the next time you meet him on a tennis court.” He swallows hard, realizing for the first time that this is the very last time they’ll be here, here at the Junior High National Championships, and clears his throat. “Keep going higher,” he says, and heads for the edge of the court and the road beyond.

 


	25. Kintarou & Ryouma

It's something of a madhouse after the trophy is deposited into Tezuka's hands, after Taka has the flag and nearly kills them all with it, and trying to make everyone hold still for the pictures is an act of the gods. 

 

"Everyone!" Oishi announces. "Taka-san's father wants to host our celebratory dinner!"

 

Immediately, Ryouma is bored. He doesn't want to eat, he wants to go and _do something._ Maybe more tennis, not sure. Side-eyeing Atobe is a good start, though he's chattering away with Tezuka like no tomorrow, and Tezuka is hugging that trophy like he's never going to let it go. 

 

Fuji, too, is distracted, hooked underneath Taka-san's arm, or on his shoulder to keep him out of the crowds at times. Everyone seems to have forgotten about the weird forfeit thing, and when there's a whispered word of _it's about Yuuta_ , that sort of ends any and all speculations about whether it was necessary or not. It probably was. It was Fuji. 

 

Atobe seems like the better option. Ryouma slowly trots over and grabs the back of his jacket. "Atobe-sempai, are you going to eat with everyone, or…" 

 

Atobe grimaces slightly, and he ruffles Ryouma’s hair, pulling him into a one-armed hug. “You were _magnificent_. Even my glorious self was awed at your prowess.”

 

Then he sighs slightly, and disengages. “But we have a plane to catch. And I’m not sure…” He looks at Tezuka, his beautiful, proud, beloved rival, glowing with a well-earned victory, and his chest clenches so hard he can barely breathe. He raises an eyebrow, masterfully faking control and his eyes dart to Ryouma. “I don’t suppose…?”

 

"I could come, too," Ryouma immediately supplies, and Tezuka, distracted temporarily by Oishi going on about tournament statistics, about how they've made _history_ at Seigaku, only then glances back to the two of them.

 

"Ah," Tezuka says, "no." 

 

Ryouma immediately pouts. "Why not? Where are you going, I could go, it would be fun--"

 

"Echizen, not today."

 

"But--"

 

Ryouma's eyes flicker over to Fuji again--nope, attached to Taka-san, god help that guy--and he huffs, rocking back onto his heels. "But I _won_ ," he says, petulantly. It actually still seems pretty weird to think that he won, after he'd been scared for so long. All the more reason he deserves a reward, to be honest. "Atobe-sempai, please?" He might have drawn out a couple of those syllables longer than necessary for cute factor. 

 

Atobe feels himself wavering. Damn, but he is _not_ strong when it comes to Ryouma, or saying no to him. “Kunimitsu,” he begins, but at the look in Tezuka’s eyes--heated, _possessive_ \--he rethinks what he was going to say, and switches tactics. “Kunimitsu, you can’t leave him unhappy tonight--he’s just won you the National Championship. We can’t go until he’s taken care of.”

 

Tezuka exhales a long, weary sigh. "You say this as if I want him to be unhappy," he mutters, shoving up his glasses. "What do you expect me to do? Echizen, where's that redheaded friend of yours?" 

 

Ryouma blinks, then shrugs. "Dunno. I haven't seen him since _I won_." He feels like he needs to stress that a little more. Maybe then people will get the point. 

 

Shiraishi is strong, but Kintarou is strong _and_ determined, and Shiraishi simply can’t keep hold of him forever. He _might_ tear his shirt a bit when he finally gets away, pinwheeling his arms to catch his balance, ducking to avoid being snatched up again with gentle words of _he’s with his team, he doesn’t want to see you, dumbass, you have to let him have his moment._

 

That’s stupid. He can’t steal time!

 

Kintarou isn’t sure how many of the bleachers he hits on the way down, but it’s not many, and pretty soon he’s careening into Ryouma, sending them both to the ground. “You won! You kicked his _ass_ , Koshimae! I knew you would, there’s no one cooler and stronger than you! Ahh, you’re like a manga hero! You need a catchphrase to say whenever you kick the villain’s ass because you’re _so cool!_ ”

 

"…You still have lots more to work on?" Ryouma dryly suggests, his face pressed firmly into the court. He doesn't seem _entirely_ inclined to protest about it.  

 

"Problem solved," Tezuka deadpans, and calmly grabs Atobe by the wrist to haul him away. "See, you aren't needed here." 

 

“That’s an _awesome_ catchphrase! Hey, hey, who were you playing last night that was so strong? I bet I’m stronger! I’m gonna be the strongest guy you’ve ever played, Koshimae!”

 

Atobe hesitates for one more second, then decides that quite simply, he doesn’t want to get in the middle of it, and Ryouma is smiling, so whatever. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he suggests, taking Tezuka’s hand and running for the waiting limousine (and later, the jet, and finally the cabin in the Alps).

 

"…I was talking about you, idiot," Ryouma grouses, slowly attempting to get to his feet again. "Let me up, you're really _weirdly_ heavy. Do you have to go back to Osaka tonight?" 

 

Kintarou’s face clears when he hears that, and drags Ryouma up to his feet. “Nope! We’re staying another night in the hotel! Do you wanna come stay with us? There’s an ice machine, I think.” No, he’d gotten lost on the way to the ice machine. Maybe it doesn’t exist. “Zaizen snores, though, and you need a lot of sleep after that awesome battle!”

 

"I'm not tired." Weirdly, he's not, and sleep is the last thing on his mind. Tennis is better. Maybe running. Not eating sushi, though, that's dumb. "And I've got a better idea." Ryouma grabs Kintarou's hand, and drags him back through the crowds before finding Shiraishi, and tugs on the back of his jersey. "Shitenhouji-buchou, can Kintarou spend the night at my house? I'll get him to the train tomorrow." 

 

“Yeah! Can I spend the night at Koshimae’s house? He lives in a bell with a cat!”

 

Shiraishi’s eyebrows raise. “Ah, not to put too fine a point on it, Echizen-kun, but...are you sure about this?”

 

“Let him go, Kurarin! How dare you stand in the way of true love?”

 

Ryouma stares up at him. "Why wouldn't I be sure?" 

 

"Two dumbasses in love, that's just gre--" There's a resounding _slap_. "Stop it, Kenya-sempai." 

 

“ _Please_ , Shiraishi? Please, please, please, please—”

 

“Fine, Kin-chan.” Shiraishi winces a little at the absurdly high-pitched noise that comes out of Kintarou’s mouth. Last night _had_ been restful. “Echizen-kun, I hope you’re better at making sure he gets to Tokyo Station than he is. Noon tomorrow, don’t be late.” It would be hard to be _worse_ at directions than Kintarou is.

 

Firmly, Chitose puts a hand on Yuuji and Koharu’s shoulders before they can complete their plan of stuffing Kintarou’s pockets with condoms “just in case.”

 

"That's easy. Come on, Kintarou." Ryouma grabs him by the arm--firmly--and hauls him off. "Oishi-sempai, I'm going!"

 

"Eh? Where are you--"

 

"I've got a date."

 

Everyone on the team sort of freezes up. Inui's notebook comes out. 

 

"Echizen," Oishi slowly says, "wouldn't you rather come and eat sushi with all of us?"

 

Ryouma immediately looks bored. "We do that all the time."

 

"It seems like _everyone_ is going off on romantic ventures tonight," Fuji says, half-wistful, half-predatory in the general direction that Tezuka and Atobe had left in. 

 

“Not everyone,” Kaidou mutters. It’s _everywhere_ that he’s surrounded by pairs, god.

 

Taka looks around to make sure that no one is watching, then leans down to whisper, “I can carry you off on one after sushi, if you don’t mind?” 

 

“Koshimae deserves the best food in the world!” Kintarou says, almost accusingly. “Hey, Koshimae! When we’re done eating we should play tennis!” 

 

“Ochibi, you just got done with a huge tournament,” Eiji says, eyeing the wild child attached to his “baby” with some concern. “Hmmm….don’t you want to come out with us to Kawamura Sushi?”

 

Ryouma just sighs. "Are you all gonna be weird if I don't go?" he grumps, looking over at Kintarou. "Do you want to eat sushi?"

 

"Echizen, don't be like that!" Now Momoshiro is on him, too, and that makes Ryouma growl. "Come on, we're celebrating the most amazing victory of all time! I don't think there's ever been a longer match played in the history of the tournament--Inui-sempai, look that up!"

 

"I'm busy. Kaidou, I wonder who is considered the acting captain right now with Tezuka absent--you, or Oishi…hmm."

 

Fuji's pleased, breathy little "Taka-san…" makes Ryouma roll his eyes as much as Momo does, he squirms away, latching onto Kintarou more firmly. "My sempai are dumb."

 

“Definitely Oishi-sempai,” Kaidou growls, and hisses a little, though it’s at least half in a pleased way that Inui-sempai had the idea that it _could_ be him.

 

“I love sushi! Mm, but takoyaki is better, I’m gonna take Koshimae out for takoyaki someday!”

 

Before leaving with the rest of his team, Shiraishi hangs back long enough to slip three 500 yen coins into Ryouma’s hand. “I heard you were going out,” he explains quietly. “Sorry, it’s all I have with me.” Then he ruffles Kintarou’s hair, and the rest of Shitenhouji heads off to the hotel.

 

“Oishi,” Eiji says urgently, tugging on Oishi’s sleeve, “do you think he knows what _takoyaki_ means?”

 

"I don't know," Oishi hisses underneath his breath, suddenly nervous. "Should we tell them? I think Touyama might know, but you _know_ Echizen doesn't. It's kind of…obscure…" 

 

“But we can’t tell him!” Eiji tugs on Oishi’s sleeve harder, though he most certainly already has his attention. “Then he’ll know that _we_ know. Uhh...hey, Fuji! C’mere, I wanna talk to you!” Fuji will do it. Fuji already knows everything, and Fuji did Echizen against the Tezuka wall, so Echizen knows about Fuji.

 

Fuji blinks, drifting closer for a second, but then he realizes that he has dislocated himself from Taka, and so: "But…Taka-san is over _there_." 

 

"He's useless, forget it," Oishi frets. "I think maybe we should just do it, Eiji. We can't just keep him in the dark."

 

“Uh...I know!” Eiji beams. “Make Kaidou do it!”

 

"Kaidou? No way! He'll just hiss and make it weird," Oishi says with a shake of his head. "Ahh, if only Tezuka were still here, _he'd_ do it." 

 

“No he wouldn’t!” Eiji argues. “He’d freak out and tell Echizen to become the pillar of support, and you _know_ it. Go on, you know Kaidou knows what it means,” he says meaningfully. Kaidou lives in a glass closet.

 

Oishi exhales a long, exasperated breath, and looks worriedly over at Kaidou before steeling himself and walking over. "Kaidou. I need you to do something for me." Lowering his voice, he explains: "I need you to tell Echizen what takoyaki means." 

 

Kaidou’s face seizes up, his glee at their victory instantly transformed into something guarded, nervous, and he lets out a low hiss. “I...don’t know what you mean, Oishi-sempai.”

 

"Kaidou," Oishi patiently says, clapping a hand onto the other boy's shoulder, "I _need_ you to tell him. Blame it on Shitenhouji's homo brigade or something, but I know you know, so _do it_." 

 

Kaidou turns slowly purple, then ducks his head in agreement. “You owe me, sempai,” he mutters, then slinks over to Ryouma, not meeting his eyes. “Oi. Echizen. I need a word about next year’s team, privately.”

 

Ryouma blinks up at him, then sighs, dislodging Kintarou for a minute. "Fine. But can it be quick? I'm hungry and Kintarou wants takoyaki or something." 

 

Ugh, Oishi-sempai _really_ owes him. Besides, Kaidou is pretty sure they’re all barking up the wrong tree as far as trying to save Ryouma is concerned, though he keeps that knowledge to himself for the moment. “Yeah, it’s quick. Listen, Echizen. You’re American, so I have to ask. Do you know what it means to go out for takoyaki with a guy?”

 

Another slow blink, and Ryouma immediately looks sort of put out. "Is this some weird sex thing?" 

 

“It’s a homo thing,” Kaidou growls. “I don’t know if _he_ knows,” he says, jerking his chin towards Kintarou. “If you don’t want everyone thinking you’re a homo, stop him from saying you’re going out to takoyaki.” There, it’s out, and maybe if he’s lucky, they can end this conversation without Ryouma asking him, _How do you know that, Kaidou-sempai?_ Hell, maybe he’ll just think that everyone in Japan knows. Yeah, that’s what he’ll say.

 

There's a short pause, and Ryouma leans in closer, face impassive. "Kaidou-sempai. I am literally getting him to spend the night with me so I can have sex with him. I think I can handle some homo takoyaki. Maybe you should ask Momo-sempai or Inui-sempai out for some, too." 

 

Kaidou stares blankly at Ryouma for a moment. Then, uncharacteristically, he snorts out a laugh, and punches Ryouma on the shoulder. Weird fearless kid. 

 

It sort of makes him lonely, for some reason, when he slinks back to the rest of the group. “He knows,” he mutters to Oishi, and when Kintarou leaps immediately back onto Ryouma, he hisses again. “Think they both do. Leave ‘em alone, they know exactly what they’re doing.”

 

Oishi spares them another, worried glance before looking over to Eiji. "Your baby is growing up," he tiredly sighs. "Apparently. How are we supposed to handle this?" 

 

“It’s gross and I hate it,” Eiji says immediately, then adds in a whisper, “But I’m not so mad that we won’t do stuff tonight, since we won.”

 

Kaidou hates everyone on his team that can’t properly whisper. He’s also pretty sure that everyone on his team is getting laid but him. Momo has a girlfriend every week, Inui sneaks off to see that Rikkai guy, Ryouma is going out for takoyaki, Tezuka is off in Atobe’s expensive _something_ , Fuji is Taka-san’s girlfriend, and literally everyone knows about Eiji and Oishi’s “secret” relationship.

 

"Oi."

 

It's Zaizen that taps the back of Kaidou's shoulder, looking as bored as ever. "Koharu-sempai and Yuuji-sempai sent me back," he says wearily. "You're invited to takoyaki or something if you wanna come." 

 

There's a wolf whistle that comes from _somewhere._

 

“Welcome to Kawamura Sushi!” Taka dons his headband the minute they enter the restaurant. “Dad, table for eight!”

 

“Seven,” Eiji says, counting quickly.

 

“No, we have Ryouma’s friend with….hey, where’s Kaidou?”

 

"He gave up," Ryouma says.

 

"What?" Oishi asks, baffled.

 

"We're not sitting at the Fuji table," Ryouma tells Kintarou, dragging him away. 

 

Dinner is good, as far as that goes, though Kintarou is pretty sure that it could be better if they were eating things that weren’t raw. When Ryouma says sushi, he really means _sushi_ , and not the rolls at the store with tuna and mayo stuffed into rice. This is actual raw fish, the kind his mother likes but his father agrees is slimy, but Kintarou is hungry and eats it all anyway.

 

There’s no one as cool as Ryouma. His sempai all seem to know it, and Kintarou glows with pride—that’s _his_ Koshimae, somehow. He’s not sure exactly how, yet, but it’s definitely _his_. 

 

It gets even better when Ryouma pays for the meal without blinking, then snatches Kintarou up and drags him off to the bell and cat shrine again. “Whoa, it’s even bigger tonight! Or wait...yeah, there’s stars out, that’s it!” Kintarou’s eyes are wide, looking at the huge gates, the expansive grounds. “Wow, Kenya told me everyone in Tokyo lives in a shoebox! You must have won a contest or something!” It makes sense, of course. Ryouma is the coolest, so he must live in the coolest house.

 

Ryouma gives him a briefly exasperated glance, and opens up the main door to the shrine-turned-house. "I lived in an apartment in New York, but not here. I dunno how Oyaji got this place, but I don't wanna know, either. I'm home," he calls into the house briefly, toeing off his shoes. "Come on, Kintarou, we'll just go to my room." 

 

“Oi, oi, brat, didn’t you have a tennis match today?” Echizen Nanjirou saunters out into the living room, wearing a yukata and slippers and nothing else. “How’d you do?”

 

Shit, there’s a _priest_ in Ryouma’s house! Kintarou flinches, then bows deeply, searching in his pocket before pulling out a 5-yen piece, setting it on the ground, then clapping twice like he really should have before they came in.

 

“Eh?”

 

"Kintarou, don't bother," Ryouma wearily says, nudging him with a socked foot. "That's just my dad. Who can't even remember," he darkly adds, glaring over at his father from underneath his hat, "that it was _National Finals_ today."

 

“Oh, was that today?” Nanjirou asks, looking for all the world as if he hadn’t worn a disguise, sat in the back row, then immediately snuck away afterwards. “Hey, it’s your fault for not reminding your old man. How’d you do?”

 

“He’s the best strongest coolest player in all of Japan!” Kintarou says, eyes shining as he squeezes Ryouma’s arm. “He beat that Yukimura so bad they took him away in an ambulance! No one in the world is cooler or stronger!”

 

Nanjirou isn’t trying too hard not to laugh. “I see you, uh, brought home a souvenir. Do I need to put a cot in your room? Or a leash?”

 

"Shut up, Oyaji. Of course I won." Ryouma sighs, and starts attempting to drag Kintarou past his father and down the hall. "Kintarou's good at tennis and we might go play later, so don't be weird and hog the court all night." 

 

“Ah-ah-ah,” Nanjirou says with a grin, stepping deftly in front of them to the side. “How do I know he’s not some crazed killer? I should probably go a round or two with him.”

 

Ryouma's eyes narrow, and he folds his arms, scowling up at his father. "No way. He's mine, I'm not letting you play him." 

 

“Ooohh, is Ryouma in love?” Nanjirou laughs. “Should I make you boys leave the door open all night? Careful, boy, my pervert son will eat you all up!”

 

Kintarou stares at Nanjirou, then looks at Ryouma. “If I beat him at tennis will he leave us alone?”

 

“Oi! Don’t be just as rude as my brat!”

 

"Oyaji, you're the worst and I hate you," Ryouma mutters, yanking on his hat to hide his blush and grabbing Kintarou by the arm to haul him bodily down the hall. "He'll never leave us alone, let's just go to my room." 

 

“See if I bring you snacks! Ungrateful wretch!”

 

Kintarou ignores the strange priest man, and closes the door behind them, then looks at the door, opens it again, and closes it. “Whoa, you have a really thick door! And...wow, is this all your room? How many brothers and sisters sleep in here with you?”

 

Ryouma turns the lock, and shoves a chair in front of the door for good measure. Not that it'll do much, but _still_. "I'm an only child," he answers, shrugging off his jersey and leaving it on top of his tennis bag. "Karupin sleeps in here with me, though. He hogs the bed."

 

“My dog does that, too,” Kintarou says knowingly, and flops down on Ryouma’s bed. “That’s really squishy! Ahhh, Koshimae, you were so cool today against that scary Yukimura. Are you still all sweaty? I was going to come give you a towel, but Shiraishi made Gin sit on me.”

 

"Not really. I mostly dried off." Kinda gross, though, but whatever, it's just sweat. Ryouma flops down next to him, rather pleased that he's still getting congratulations over his victory. "I _was_ pretty cool, wasn't I." 

 

“The coolest!” There are almost real stars in Kintarou’s eyes. “Everyone says no one can beat Yukimura, but I knew last night that wasn’t true. No one can beat you and me, Koshimae!” 

 

He flops to the side, laying his head on Ryouma’s chest, hugging him close. “When I played him it felt like someone switched the world off,” he says, voice dropping several octaves, and for the first time, it sounds as if he’s actually started puberty after all now that he isn’t yelling. “I thought I was dying.”

 

"…That happened to me before." Ryouma tosses his hat off to the floor before he curls up, finding Kintarou surprisingly comfortable to lie against like this. He's warm, rather like Atobe-sempai is, though minus the fancy cologne. That's not necessarily a bad thing. "That's why I didn't want to play him again," he admits. "I've never been scared of tennis before, but when I played him…" 

 

He trails off, slinging an arm around Kintarou's hip. "I'm glad you played that one-point match with him. I'm sorry it was really scary, but it kind of made me want to beat him up." 

 

“It doesn’t feel like tennis,” Kintarou complains, and snuggles closer, burrowing determinedly into Ryouma’s side. “I’m glad you showed me you could beat him, otherwise I’d be scared to play him again.” He props his head up on Ryouma’s chest, grinning. “You make me not scared, Koshimae.”

 

"Don't make it weird. Tennis just shouldn't be scary, that's all." Ryouma butts his head down into Kintarou's hair, huffing out a breath. "You could beat him. But you should wait. I wanna play him again first, once he's 100% and all that. Maybe the tiebreak would go on longer…"

 

“Nn, that tickles, Koshimae.” It’s far from a complaint. “I heard people talking in the stands. They said it was the longest tiebreak ever, but we went longer than that last night. I didn’t tell anyone they were wrong.” He shoves his face against Ryouma’s chest, inhaling. “I wanted to keep our secret. You smell sweaty.”

 

Ryouma squirms. "Sorry," he mutters, though he's not sorry, and if he didn't think being sweaty after playing tennis for forever wasn't a turn-on, then he'd be seriously out of luck. "We can play again later, if you want. If we start keeping records, we can keep breaking them." 

 

“We’re gonna break all of them, every day.” Then, Kintarou remembers that he lives in Osaka, and Ryouma lives in Tokyo, and holds tighter, burrowing into his chest and the nice sweat-smell even more. “Ne, Koshimae? I wanna come to Seigaku so I can see you every day.”

 

"Don't, our team's gonna be bad next year." It makes him wince to think about it, actually. He wriggles, slinging a leg over Kintarou's hip. "Your team's gonna be good. Maybe. Look, what I'm saying is you should stay there and we can meet up at Nationals again. And I can come and visit and stuff. I'd say you could come here, but you're bad a trains."

 

“Most trains go too slow,” Kintarou agrees, and stuffs his face into Ryouma’s neck over his t-shirt. Yes, much better. “And they’re _really_ confusing. Mm, Zaizen’s gonna be a really bad Captain, Shiraishi says so and all he does is tell everyone how gross we are and throw glitter. Who’s your captain gonna be? The lizard man?”

 

"Kaidou-sempai, yeah." Kintarou's mouth is _right_ against his skin now, and whenever he talks and breathes, Ryouma just has to squirm a little. The problem is that he just won't stop breathing. Okay, that's phrased wrong, but _still_. "He'll be okay. But then it's just me and Momo-sempai and everyone else sucks."

 

“Mm, Kouharu-nee-san and Yuuji-nee-san like your next year captain. I think they’re gonna play sex games with him tonight.” Kintarou says it frankly, and snakes an arm around Ryouma’s waist.

 

"Good, he's kind of…" Ryouma trails off, realizing how abruptly blunt the conversation went, and yeah, that's good. He relaxes almost instantly. "We could do that, too. I mean, not games or anything, that's weird, but we could kiss and stuff." 

 

“Yeah?” Kintarou brightens, and he raises up onto his elbows and knees above Ryouma, looking down at him. “Great! You’ve done it before, right? You’re probably really good at it, but I’ll catch up to you really fast! I wanted to practice for you last night, but no one would even though I _asked nicely_.”

 

"I've done a lot of things before." Yeah, he's really proud of that. He's good at it, he knows, because otherwise Atobe would have said something. Ryouma pushes himself up onto an elbow, his nose brushing against Kintarou's. "I don't care if you're bad at it," he admits, his voice hitching a little, which is stupid, because he _has_ done this a lot. "I mean, I don't think there's really a way to be bad at it if you like someone." 

 

Kintarou’s grin is challenging, excited, and not a bit afraid. “Then we’re gonna be the best at it,” he promises, voice dropping low, “because I’ll never like anyone as much as I like Koshimae.”

 

His tennis, his smell, his cocky grin, his cool soft hands--there’s nothing about Ryouma that doesn’t make Kintarou want to do _everything_ with him, and kissing seems like a great place to start, especially if he tastes like he smells, like strength and power and tricks and surprises.

 

Kintarou closes the gap between them, kissing the way he’s seen in manga, tilting his head to the side to press their lips together. It feels a lot nicer than it had seemed when he’d practiced on a pillow, and he makes a low, hungry noise deep in his throat.

 

Yeah, that's…surprisingly good. 

 

There's a thrill that slides down his spine, one that was kind of there with Atobe, but not _that_ much. Atobe's a good kisser, and taught _him_ how to kiss, and that's good, because right now, Ryouma knows to wrap his hands up into Kintarou's hair and pull him down and kiss him harder, his lips parting on his next breath to gently scrape his teeth over the other boy's lower lip. 

 

It's definitely not like with Fuji, who would barely kiss him at all, not that Ryouma cared. This is just better in every way, because he can wriggle up and even if the kisses aren't the most precise things, they're good, and insistent, and needy, and also because Kintarou is warm and the weight of him is always surprising because he's so _solid_. Ryouma groans low in his throat, flopping back, dragging Kintarou with him. "You're not bad," he mumbles on his next breath. 

 

Ryouma’s lips make Kintarou think things, feel things, he wasn’t even sure he was supposed to be feeling. They’re new, those feelings, but they’ve been getting more and more _important_ in the last couple years. Ryouma, at least, seems to know what he’s doing, especially when he moves his mouth really interesting ways. 

 

Kintarou knows he has to be squashing Ryouma a bit, but no one is complaining, so he just lays on him, intrigued by the way Ryouma feels so cool, then stops thinking about anything at all when teeth are grazing his lips, making him wriggle. “You get me,” he breathes, leaning down over Ryouma with his eyes intent, “I’ll get you right back!”

 

His next kiss is deeper, with more teeth, and he copies what he’d felt Ryouma do--but different, less technique, more pure, natural instinct. _Do this,_ he usually feels, and _this will be the right move, this will feel right._ He’d never thought he’d feel that way in stuff that wasn’t tennis, but then again… “We can go to more than one point, right, Koshimae?” he asks, lips still pressed up against Ryouma’s.

 

"This isn't tennis," Ryouma huffs out, his eyes lidded as he squirms, getting Kintarou between his thighs rather than straddling his hips. It's better that way, because he likes being able to squeeze his legs around the other boy and keep him close. "We go until we wanna stop, that's it." Maybe that does sound a little bit like tennis, though.

 

His hands drag down Kintarou's back, and he fists his hands into his shirt when he lurches up for another kiss, bumping their noses and kissing him harder with his next, ragged breath. It's weird, being the one that has all the knowledge for once, but it's not _that_ much, and Kintarou seems about as eager as he's always been, so it all evens out. 

 

“Nn, I don’t wanna stop, I wanna keep going!” Probably forever. Kintarou isn’t sure if there’s an “end” to the way this goes, with Ryouma’s legs wrapped around his and their lips pressed together, but if there is, he wants to take the journey again and again. 

 

He’s _not_ stupid, he thinks. He can handle this. This is a body thing, not a mind thing, and he’s a _lot_ better at body things than he is mind things. Sure, math is hard and English might as well be more math, but no one can beat him in any sport he’s ever tried, and sports are just things that bodies do. This is probably something he can do great with just impressions and instinct.

 

He lurches forward, his hands tangling in Ryouma’s hair. Yeah, that’s good, that makes him feel strong and powerful and also really hot in his lower belly. Kisses are supposed to be with eyes closed, he knows, but he has to steal a few looks, just at the way Ryouma is gasping for breath, at the way his cheeks have color in them, at the way his skin is so pale and his hair is so dark. “You have really long eyelashes, Koshimae,” he whispers, and has the weird idea that he could use his tongue in kissing, tasting Ryouma’s lips and his own tongue, and he tries it.

 

When Kintarou's hands go up into his hair like that, Ryouma kind of melts, shivering when he sinks down into the bed and curls his toes into the sheets. It's stupid, but he likes the way Kintarou's tongue feels when it slides against his own, even when he normally just cringes at that and pulls at Atobe's hair to make him stop. 

 

This, though--this is good. 

 

"You can pull on my hair, if you want," Ryouma mumbles between kisses, and he squirms again, trying to get a hand between them, fumbling at the elastic of Kintarou's shorts. He doesn't yank them down yet, or stick his hand in them, but he _does_ grab at the outline of Kintarou's cock, his breath hitching when he squeezes. "You're really hard." 

 

“Hmm?” Kintarou cocks his head to the side, then grins when he realizes what Ryouma means. “Oh, yeah, that happens sometimes.” He fumbles for a minute, breathing heavier than usual even though this isn’t too much exercise, and the grin widens when he gets a hand up between Ryouma’s legs. “You too, Koshimae.” The light in his eyes doesn’t burn any less fiercely, but his voice is a little shyer when he asks, “Do you wanna touch them? I bet we could do it and kiss at the same time.” God, why hasn’t anyone thought of that before? Kintarou is pretty sure he’s a genius.

 

Yes, he has chosen wisely. It doesn't matter how weird Atobe or Tezuka or Shiraishi think this plan was, _Ryouma_ knows that it was perfect. "Yeah. Good idea," he breathes, his legs spreading a little bit at Kintarou's touch, and he's already grabbing and tugging on the other boy's shorts to get them _off_. "Gimme. And then definitely kiss me more." 

 

Kintarou is really absurdly good at taking his clothes off fast. His shorts hit the ground next to his racquet, and yeah, he’s pretty into the idea of Ryouma touching it. “It got a lot bigger this year,” he says, looking down at it as if constantly surprised, and he grabs Ryouma’s hand, tugging it forward until he can rub up against it. “Nn, you have a cold hand, but it still feels good.”

 

Then he remembers what Ryouma said about kissing, and he leans forward, fumbling between Ryouma’s legs while he kisses him again. “You have like, _perfect_ teeth. Koshimae looks like a movie star.”

 

"You're weird," Ryouma mumbles, but he's _far_ more distracted by Kintarou's cock, and the fact that it's heavy and hot in his grasp, even more so when he slides his fingers around it and squeezes. It jumps when he does that, and it's slick underneath his thumb when he drags that up to rub over the head. 

 

He decides to help Kintarou out a little bit, and squirms, kicking off his own shorts most of the way. They still end up around one ankle, but whatever, good enough. "Come here," he breathes, tugging on Kintarou's cock a bit to get him more between his legs. "It'll feel really good if we rub them against one another, like you said." 

 

If Ryouma thinks it’s a good idea, it _must_ be a good idea, Kintarou decides, because everything else has been pretty much perfect. He lays down flush with Ryouma’s body, even though his mouth goes pretty dry when Ryouma touches him like that. Ryouma has _good_ fingers, really quick and slender and fast, and Kintarou knows his own can be just as good if he tries hard.

 

The way Ryouma feels is a surprise, enough that he lifts up slightly onto his knees and stares at it, cradled between his two hands. His brow furrows, and he traces a finger all around the head, rubbing it with his thumb, and then slides his hands down from tip to base, fascinated. “You don’t have a, a thing,” he mentions, startled. “No skin. Does it feel the same?”

 

"Uh huh." Hard to really think and process when Kintarou is _touching him_ , but somehow, Ryouma manages. He growls underneath his breath all the same, digging his hands into Kintarou's back to get him _close_ again, because he's warm and they're both a little sweaty again and that's really good and feels _nice_. "Everyone's in America's is…ah…like that. Doesn't matter, still feels good." He grabs at one of Kintarou's hands, guides it so that he's wrapping his fingers around both of them, and Ryouma's breath hitches at that contact, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Your hands are bigger," he explains, eyes lidded. "Feels good when you're grabbing them both like that, right?" 

 

Kintarou is pretty sure he’s on fire just about everywhere.

 

There’s no other word for the heat that courses through him, not when he just wants to grab and kiss and touch until they both burn up, but he’s not even sure how he would _start_.

 

Ryouma knows what to do. Ryouma knows where to put his hand, and he’s right, that does feel good. “Really good,” he agrees, and his scrambled brain remembers something Gin had taught him, the Breath of Fire, and he breathes out slowly and with his chi, letting go of the nervous tension that has him strung up like a wire.

 

Yeah, that’s better. The nerves die down, and all Kintarou can feel is his cock next to Ryouma’s, slippery and hard and rubbing together, and even though Ryouma hasn’t told him to, he starts to stroke them together like he’d do his own. “Koshimae has pretty skin,” he whispers, hand moving faster when he sees how _good_ Ryouma looks like this. He leans down and licks a long stripe up Ryouma’s neck, groaning at how good it tastes. “Hey, if you come on yourself, I’ll lick that off you too.” He’s kind of hungry, now that he thinks of it, and Ryouma tastes better than anyone should.

 

At that, Ryouma's breath hiccups, startled by how much _harder_ that makes him when he was pretty sure he was as hard as he already could be. Now, his cock just drips over Kintarou's fingers, onto his stomach, and he grabs at handfuls of Kintarou's hair, shivering hard when the other boy's mouth drags over his skin like that. 

 

"Soon," he breathlessly agrees, lurching up, getting his thighs tight around Kintarou's hips so that he can arch his back and wriggle up eagerly into the touch of Kintarou's hand. His palm is calloused, his grip really tight and _good_ , and Ryouma's voice breaks on a whimpering sigh when he yanks on Kintarou's hair, keeping his mouth on his neck because it feels _really_ good. "Y-you can bite--it's good, if there are marks--"

 

Bite?

 

For a weird moment, Kintarou is fairly certain that Ryouma thinks he’s a vampire--or maybe Ryouma is one--but he’s a little too grounded in the physical right now to let his brain take off by itself the way it does sometimes. No, this has to just be one more thing Ryouma knows about, which means it has to be good if it’s anything like all the rest of it.  Gently, he sets his teeth to Ryouma’s neck where he seems to want them, soft at first and then harder, just relaxing into the idea of whatever he’s doing and letting the body take care of the rest of it.

 

Ryouma isn’t cold now. He’s more like a blue-burning flame, so hot he just _seems_ cold, and Kintarou can’t get enough of it. He can hear himself letting out grunting, growling noises of pleasure, his hips jerking up fast as he moves his hand, and he gasps, groaning with his eyes shut, sucking and gnawing on different patches of Ryouma’s neck when he tenses, quivers, slams his hips up, and spills in more thick, wet pulses than he can ever remember.

 

Ryouma can't remember if he's _ever_ come this hard.

 

Honestly, he doesn't remember much beyond clinging to Kintarou's back, digging his nails in hard, raking them down the other boy's spine when he finally, gratefully spills, arching up with a hard, broken gasp. Kintarou's teeth feel good, his hands are perfect, the way Kintarou grabs at him even better, the way he comes all over him and leaves a sticky mess between them making him groan and shudder and twitch up into Kintarou's hand anew--

 

God, he's dizzy. Ryouma sags down into the bed, his chest heaving, his eyes a little glazed when he peers up at the ceiling, trying to remember what day it is. 

 

This, Kintarou thinks, is close to the feeling he has when he’s been starving all day, then eats a huge bowl of food--and somehow, the eating just makes him hungrier when he’s done.

 

His hand is still tight around them, and it takes an effort of will to relax it, rubbing off some of the sticky liquid from them before he moves down. He crouches down over Ryouma, breath still coming fast when he bends, dragging his tongue over the slick skin of his stomach, lapping and licking up the mess. More than anything, he likes the way Ryouma’s skin tastes, and the way he quivers, muscles tensing under the skin at every touch of Kintarou’s mouth. “Mm, Koshimae is still all sweaty.”

 

"Your fault, this time," Ryouma manages, his voice breaking at the end when Kintarou's mouth is on him again and ahh, god, he could get used to that. He sags down, twitching and trembling when that tongue swipes out over his skin, and shuts his eyes, breathing in deep, dragging a hand slowly through Kintarou's hair. "You're _really_ good." 

 

“Mm, yeah? Well, you’re the best, so...let’s get better together!” Kintarou dips his tongue into Ryouma’s belly button, then nuzzles against his stomach. “We can do it again, right?” he asks, suddenly aware of how little he knows about this kind of thing. “I mean, I don’t have to go until tomorrow, and you’re probably gonna taste good all night.”

 

"We can do it again," Ryouma kind of dazedly agrees, sparing a glance at his door. So long as that stays locked, hell _yes._ "Just--don't let me forget to set an alarm for tomorrow, in case we fall asleep or something." 

 

“I usually forget to set my alarm, so that’s fine!” 

 

Kintarou dips his head down again, concentrating now. Ryouma had tasted really good the lower down he got, though whether that’s skin or the other stuff, he isn’t sure. Hmm, that’s pretty important to discover. He starts licking, and kissing a little because it feels good, down Ryouma’s abdomen, down to the crease where his leg meets his hip, then over between his legs. 

 

Yep, that’s the good taste.

 

“I won’t bite here,” he assures Ryouma, and gives a little lick just where smooth skin becomes covered in dark, thick hairs.

 

Ryouma's hips jerk reflexively, courtesy of how overstimulated he already is. "Can't you _wait_ five minutes?" he groans, tugging on Kintarou's hair a little bit, though he doesn't exactly put much effort into stopping him. The idea of biting reminds him how much his neck is throbbing--pleasantly, mind, but oh god, explaining that tomorrow--and Ryouma shivers hard. This must be why Atobe always wanted him down there. "You're _sure_ it doesn't taste bad or anything?" 

 

Kintarou laughs. “Tastes like you.” 

 

There’s an unspoken addition to that: _Everything about you is perfect._ He doesn’t say that much, because there’s a slight feeling that would make Ryouma do or say something weird, and that’s not worth it, even if it’s really, honestly, 100% how he feels. “I can wait if you want me to. Just wanted to taste you.” 

 

He sits up on his heels, unabashedly starting to stroke himself again, already half-hard. “Is there a rule? Is it like swimming after eating? You gotta tell me, Koshimae, or I won’t ever learn.”

 

Honestly, Ryouma doesn't get why everyone else acts like Kintarou is so stupid. Okay, well, he's not the _brightest_ , but if you just tell him bluntly, he gets stuff just fine and seems to remember it well enough. That's applied to both tennis and sex things now, so that's a pretty good track record. "Mine's just sensitive right after," he says, flopping his head back with a long, exhaled breath. "So you've gotta give me a few minutes. Want me to put my mouth on yours? I'm good at it." 

 

That idea is enough to bring him the whole way back to hard, and Kintarou scrambles up, kneeling on either side of Ryouma’s head. “That sounds _great_ ,” he says enthusiastically, and settles back onto Ryouma’s chest, balancing his weight on his feet and knees so he doesn’t crush the smaller boy. 

 

He wasn’t joking earlier--Ryouma really is as pretty as a movie star, with perfect pale skin and dark lashes and straight white teeth. His heart thuds, and some of the silly things Koharu and Yuuji say to each other start to make sense in the back of his mind as his body thrums in excitement before Ryouma even moves. “If it’s you,” he says, urgent, quiet, with a smile he feels with his whole body, “it’s gonna be way better than good.”

 

 _Weirdo_ Ryouma wants to accuse him of being for not the first time, but it doesn't quite make it off his tongue when his heart does some weird, thumping, twisting thing in his chest. Instead, he just huffs, his face hot, and he reaches out to grab at Kintarou's cock again, tugging it to his lips. 

 

Kintarou tastes better. That's a good sign already, and it makes Ryouma's own cock give a needy twitch that's still too much right now. His eyes lid, and his tongue flicks out, dragging over the tip of Kintarou's cock, his own breath already more ragged when Kintarou bumps against his lips, already kind of slick and drippy. 

 

Propping up a pillow behind his own head makes it easier, because he _does_ kind of want to play a bit more with it than he usually gets to. The taste doesn't bother him as much, so that's part of it, but also…okay, he's dumb, but foreskin is cool. Even when Kintarou is this hard and it's all mostly pulled back, dragging his tongue even near it brings about some pretty enthusiastic reactions, and Ryouma is _all_ about that. 

 

Kintarou’s breath comes in ragged, eager gasps, and he vaguely remembers what Ryouma had said about liking his hair pulled. Yeah, he can do that. His hands fist in Ryouma’s hair, then slide back, short fingernails trailing against his scalp at the front, grabbing up all the hair there from where it’s plastered to his forehead with the sweat. It’s almost a handle, and Kintarou grips hard, tugging him down every time it feels _good_. 

 

That tongue is wet and slippery and _hot_ , and it feels strangely delicate moving over the head, teasing under the skin. “More on the bottom,” he says without thinking, not even realizing he’s pretty much giving orders. When he realizes it, he mutters an apology, then adds, “it’s more sensitive there, feels--nn, your tongue is good, I want--I want you to like the way it tastes.”

 

It’s important, somehow, for some reason, even if he can’t figure out why. It just _is_ , and from the way Ryouma is making those urgent, sloppy, pretty noises, Kintarou feels himself growing harder and harder with every swipe of his tongue.

 

Again, Ryouma doesn't get why everyone thinks Kintarou is so stupid, because he remembers and gets it and just _knows things_. 

 

He likes being told what to do right here and right now, and he likes it when Kintarou's hands are in his hair, pulling and keeping his head down. He breathes out hot and ragged through his nose, grateful for the moment that Kintarou's not as big as Atobe, because his jaw already aches a little like this, but…ugh, he likes that, too, especially when he does something Kintarou really likes and he shoves harder into his mouth. 

 

Ryouma's hands slide around the backs of Kintarou's thighs, nails kneading in when his tongue wriggles underneath the head of Kintarou's cock. He swallows hard with the other boy's next lurch forward, shoving down his gag reflex to swallow again around Kintarou's cock, _hoping_ that Kintarou doesn't think it's gross that he's drooling and that the sounds he's making are wet and sloppy and _messy_. It makes his own dick hard, too, and that's the important thing.

 

Ryouma makes _that sound_ , and Kintarou lets out a whimper.

 

He’s never felt any kind of pleasure like the one wrapped around his cock right now, and it’s enough to make him shiver with every thrust. More important is the fact that Ryouma’s mouth is _on his cock_ , is one of the best things he’s ever felt in his life, and Kintarou can’t imagine anything in the world feeling better than each sloppy kiss and lick. “You’re so messy,” he whispers, awed, and his cock jumps in Ryouma’s mouth when he says it. 

 

For a second, he wonders if the gagging noises are bad--but no, he doesn’t think so. Ryouma is smart, one of the smartest guys he’s ever met, and he’s definitely smart enough to make it obvious if he doesn’t like something.

 

Encouraged by that thought, Kintarou grabs his hair tighter, and starts thrusting in little circles into Ryouma’s mouth, feeling that tongue drag over the bottom just like he’d asked, and he groans. “You--you do like it, yeah, I can tell you do, that’s why it’s _perfect_ with you—just lemme know when you’re not so sensitive, I want yours too—”

 

 _Telling_ him is easier said than done, and even Ryouma's groans and whimpers are muffled and wet right now, so there's that. There's also the fact that he's pretty sure he doesn't need his dick touched either way, because just sucking on Kintarou's is enough to make him hard and to make him squirm.

 

It's all in the way that Kintarou grabs at him, really, the way that he holds his head down and makes him just _take it_. He liked when Atobe did that, too, and it's even better here, when he can fit most of Kintarou in his mouth and down his throat and not feel like he's completely going to die. His eyes roll back when Kintarou's cock twitches against his tongue, and he swallows hard, sucks on him hungrily, and only a moment later does he get two seconds of reprieve, pulling back with a slick pop and a ragged, panting gasp. "Y…you can touch it, if you want," he rasps, his voice rough around the edges, and he's already grabbing for Kintarou's cock again to get it back in his mouth, his tongue dragging over his lower lip to lap up some of the mess. "But--I can come just…just with you in my mouth like this, so you don't have to. Hold my head down, I like it like that." 

 

Kintarou’s eyes go wide. He reaches back, feeling just how hard Ryouma is-- _dripping_ , and quivering, and that makes his mouth fall open for a second. This has to be some next level shit.

 

“You’re _really_ good at this,” he marvels, and then yeah, Ryouma knows what he’s doing, so he’ll have it however he wants. 

 

Kintarou grabs his hair again, new handfuls to make sure the old ones don’t get too sore, and simply shoves his cock into the other boy’s mouth, daring to go further, all the way until he’s pressed up against his face. His balls ache, and he pulls his cock out for a moment, urging Ryouma’s face lower. “Can you suck them? Then you can have it again,” he promises, rubbing needy and breathless against Ryouma’s face, hands twisted in the thick dark strands of his hair.

 

Ryouma's eyes flutter, his face flushed hot and his own cock hard enough that reflex makes him lurch into where Kintarou's tugging him without a single protest. Kintarou's skin is hot there, too, and he looks up through his lashes when he gets his mouth where Kintarou wants it, long kisses turned to messy, wet sucks. "Like that?" he breathes, voice hoarse, his unsteady breathing making it hitch into whimpers. His nails bite a little into Kintarou's thighs, because he's so hard that he hurts now, and--"Want--need you back in my mouth, please, Kintarou--"

 

Kintarou’s mouth goes dry again, and he nods. “There’s no one better than you,” he whispers again, and the intensity in his face is matched only by the way he shoves his cock back into Ryouma’s mouth. 

 

This is probably too much, no matter that Ryouma had said _yes_ , had begged for it, and seems like he’s so thirsty for it that he wants to drink the whole thing down. Kintarou can’t quite stop himself from thrusting deep into the other boy’s throat, so fast he can hear his balls slapping against Ryouma’s chin with every thrust, and his hands are tight in his hair. 

 

He looks back, sees how _hard_ Ryouma is, and switches his grip so there’s just one strong hand, more than enough to yank his head around. The other grips Ryouma’s cock, and Kintarou breathes, “Can you do it when I do it? That would be--so cool—”

 

Whoops, he’s further along than he’d thought, and he can’t muffle a startled shout when he slams in, bucking against Ryouma’s lips, bruising and battering them with his last frantic thrusts as he comes deep down Ryouma’s throat, hips still pistoning enough that he can see foam forming at Ryouma’s lips, some fluids mixing with saliva and dripping out sloppy around his cock.

 

It's really weird and overstimulating and way, _way_ too much to come two times this close together, especially when he's trying to swallow and breathe and--well, generally _think_. 

 

Easier said than done, and Ryouma effectively gives up. It feels good to do that, though, to just kind of _fall_ , and he's a shuddering, squirming mess when he spills, choking on Kintarou's cock at the same time because _breathing_ is something he'll need to do eventually, and when he finally gets his head to the side, he's panting, shivering, his eyes watering and every nerve in his body a twitching, trembling mess. 

 

It feels _way_ too good, strangely enough. 

 

Maybe his brain clicked off at one point or another, he doesn't know. He doesn't care, either. Ryouma groans, coughing weakly, swallowing again to get what he can down his throat before he shakily wipes at his mouth, blinking away the reflexive tears that are trying to escape. "You," he whispers, shutting his eyes, "need to learn to keep your _voice down_." 

 

For once, Kintarou ignores him. Ryouma looks perfect, with all the tears and the drool and the blotchy skin, and Kintarou moves down, taking Ryouma’s face in both of his hands and kissing him deeply, as deep as he thinks still counts as a kiss and not sex. He can taste himself, but only superficially. More than anything, he can taste Ryouma, everything that makes him crazy, makes him ravenous, makes him want to glue the two of them together and throw away the solvent. His mouth is searching, promising, and certain in a way that Kintarou hadn’t even known he could be.

 

When he pulls away, more shaken by that kiss than by everything else they’ve done, he nods slowly, a tiny smile hovering around his lips. “I’ll be quieter. You’re just too cool, it surprised me.”

 

Ryouma, head spinning even _more_ , just nods, flopping down with a long, ragged breath. "S'okay," he mumbles, and he sloppily grabs for Kintarou, trying to tug him down next to him so they can cuddle up against one another again. "You're pretty cool, too. I don't want you to go back to Osaka." 

 

“Mmkay. I won’t go.” That sounds like a very good solution right now, Kintarou thinks, and he wraps his arms around Ryouma, pulling them snugly together. His eyes start to droop, and he snaps them open, heart thudding. “I almost fell asleep! Nn, I said I wasn’t gonna sleep so I didn’t miss anything with you!” But he hadn’t slept at all the night before, and after doing all of that, he feels slightly as if he’d been hit by a mountain of pillows.

 

And for once, Ryouma is awfully warm to cuddle up against.

 

"We can get up early," Ryouma mutters, and he only pulls away long enough to flick his alarm clock on before rolling back like a wobbly blob. "And stuff. That way, it's fine." 

 

If only Kintarou knew that he was the world's worst early riser, and that he'd _never_ get up early for anyone else willingly.

 

What Kintarou _wants_ is to fall asleep on Ryouma, cuddled up to him, kissing him a little in his sleep, and wake up long past the time they’re supposed to be at the station. He’s not real good with trains, anyway.

 

What _happens_ is that somewhere around vague morning time, a loud rattling and banging comes from the door, and the crazy pervert priest is making noises. “ _Oi_! Brat! Your alarm is making the cat craaaazy, wake up and turn it off! What did you do, barricade the door? Do I have to come in the window?”

 

Ryouma groans, growls, hisses, and in general makes a bunch of noises that make him sound like a cat more so than Karupin. "I hate you, Oyaji," he mumbles, and flops an arm to the side, swatting at his alarm vaguely until it shuts off. 

 

It's _so_ early. 

 

"Shower," he decides at the first attempt to peel himself out of the bed. Gross. Also, _now_ he feels the whole of yesterday, which consists of lots of sore muscles and weird, achy things all around his neck and scalp. 

 

One glance in the mirror means that it's even more of a problem. 

 

"Shit," Ryouma mutters, poking at his own neck warily. Ow. Okay, so that's never been a problem before. Atobe and Fuji didn't bite like that, so there's that, but…

 

“Whoa! Those are really dark!” Kintarou sounds fascinated, but also very, _very_ sleepy when he stumbles into the bathroom, still pantsless, and drapes himself over Ryouma’s shoulder to kiss one of the bite marks. “I didn’t know it was gonna look like that.”

 

Ryouma slinks down a bit, but his irritation upon initially seeing the marks is now decisively mollified. "Neither did I," he admits, frowning in the mirror. "I dunno how to hide them if they're that bad. Maybe they'll fade in the bath or something…"

 

“Maybe!” For some reason, it makes Kintarou feel good that neither of them quite know what to do here; he’s usually the last to know about things like this, and this seems like something Zaizen or Kenya would laugh at him for not knowing.

 

“They probably do,” he says, frowning as he tries to think. “I mean, I know Koharu and Yuuji do a lot of sex, and they don’t ever have those marks.” He flips the switch on the bath, filling it up and checking the temperature with his hand, adjusting several times. “Hey, since you’re kind of a cold guy, I bet you like the bath really hot, right?” He doesn’t, personally, but he can stand it if it’s for Ryouma, the blue flame guy.

 

"It doesn't have to be _too_ hot; sensitive skin," Ryouma explains over his shoulder, still frowning in the mirror and poking at the hickeys periodically. Who can he ask about this? Fuji? No, Fuji would tease him too much. Atobe is a given, but he's overseas and probably really, really busy with Tezuka-buchou. Maybe he'll give him a shot, anyway. "Hold on a sec, I need to grab my phone." 

 

He trots back into the bedroom, and finds his cellphone buried in his tennis bag. He's missed a good dozen texts, mostly continued congratulations, and he sighs, flipping through them briefly before he quickly sends a message instead. 

 

**To: Atobe-sempai**

**Subject: help**

**how do you get rid of like a million hickeys, pls respond asap, i have to go out in public**

 

**To: Royal Brat**

**Subject: oh good lord**

**Desperately sorry for gaps in your education. Cold metal. Makeup. 1wk minimum. Good luck hope u had fun.**

 

“Whoa, your bathtub is huge!” Kintarou sounds delighted, and does _attempt_ not to splash too much, lowering himself into the bath and gleefully waiting for Ryouma. “Ne, Koshimae, I’ve never seen a bath this big that wasn’t an onsen!”

 

“Oi, brat! You better not be expecting me to drive you anywhere! You woke me up and now you’re ignoring your cousin making breakfast!”

 

"We're going to take a bus to the station, Oyaji!" Ryouma huffily snaps, worriedly frowning down at his phone. Cold metal means going to the kitchen, probably. And makeup…uggh, he _can't_ ask Nanako for help there, it's too weird. 

 

He tosses his phone on the bed, giving up. "I've seen a bigger bathtub," Ryouma tells Kintarou as he walks back into the bathroom, dragging out a couple of fresh towels to have nearby before he slides his way into the tub. That feels good, at least, especially when he slowly submerges himself completely. He comes up for air a moment later, blinking water off of his lashes. "Atobe-sempai's are huge. It's almost weird." 

 

“Whoa,” Kintarou says, appropriately impressed. He reaches out, brushing the hair back from Ryouma’s face, and beams at him. “Ne, Koshimae, can you tell me something? Is this a private thing or an all-the-time thing or an only-once thing?” It’s important to know--he probably should have asked first, but he remembers _now_ , and that’s what’s important. “Koharu-nee-chan says Tokyo is weird about private things being all-the-time things, and I don’t want you to be in trouble!”

 

Ryouma blinks, his brow furrowing as he attempts to figure out what exactly is being asked. "It's definitely not an only-once thing," he says, and his heart thuds weirdly at the thought of that. "I'm gonna figure how much the Shinkansen pass costs or whatever and visit you and things. We have to play more tennis." For the rest, though: "It's not just Tokyo that's weird about stuff like this. I think it's just Japan. If it were America…" he sighs, drawing his knees up to set his chin upon them. "Anyway. I think it's only good if we tell our friends. I don't want anyone to be weird about it, that wouldn't be fun."

 

Kintarou lights up as if he’s suddenly been plugged in, and he displaces a huge amount of water when he lunges forward, wriggling between Ryouma’s thighs as he comes up to kiss him, deep at first, then once slow and soft. “I don’t want it to be once only. And I don’t care if the Shinkansen is really expensive, I’ll run here to see you.”

 

"You can't run all that way," Ryouma protests, but he hides a little smile against Kintarou's mouth all the same, his arms slung over his shoulders. "Don't be dumb about it. My stupid dad needs to get me a present for winning Nationals, I'm gonna make him pay for the Shinkansen stuff." 

 

Kintarou nuzzles into Ryouma’s hair for a second, then dunks him swiftly under the water. “I did run!” he insists, bringing him up again. “I ran here for the tournament. I heard you were gonna be here, but I missed the train, so I ran to Tokyo.” He’s nearly bristling with energy now, and adds, “It just _felt_ important.”

 

"Uh huh," Ryouma manages when he comes up for air, spitting water and shaking it all out of his hair with a huff. "You're being weird again. You don't have to run anymore, I'll just come to see you instead. And you can take me out to real takoyaki and stuff." 

 

“I would, though,” Kintarou says, pushing the water back from Ryouma’s face, meeting his eyes intently. “If you don’t come to Osaka, I’ll just run. Even if you go back to Australia, I’ll run there.”

 

It's not even worth correcting the Australia thing. "Okay, but, you don't have to," Ryouma firmly tells him, reaching out to grab Kintarou's face. "So don't. I'll come play tennis with you in Osaka, and it'll be good."

 

“Yeah!” Kintarou kisses him again, then slips under the water himself, hastily scrubbing off the grime and sweat of the last several days. “I’ll just have to get you all sweaty with tennis so I can lick that off of your skin,” he muses. “That would be good.”

 

"Okay, but don't do that in public." 

 

Kintarou nods seriously. “Got it. Ne, just keep telling me what the rules are, and I’ll get ‘em all someday!” He beams, then grabs a bar of soap, turning around. “Wash my back?”

 

"Yeah, yeah." At least Kintarou seems to remember what _he_ tells him. That's the part that matters.

 

Less good is hiking up his jersey's collar as high as it will go to take him to the station, and praying that no one looks too hard. Why isn't his hair longer? It would be better right now, at least. 

 

"Koharu! Koharu, look, it's our baby!"

 

"Yuuji-sempai, you're really gross today." 

 

Ryouma has to do a double take, because--yep, that's _definitely_ Kaidou lurking around grouchily. 

 

With hickeys.

 

And _glitter_. 

 

Ryouma can't help but smirk, and tugs his hat down a bit. Good. He's not the _only one_. "Cheers, Kai~dou~sem~pai." Wheedling out his name always _does_ irritate him, and that's _funny_. 

 

Kaidou hisses lower than usual, attempting unsuccessfully to pull up the collar of his jersey before he catches sight of Ryouma’s own neck. His eyes dart from Ryouma to Kintarou, and he snorts. “Echizen. If you want to come into the station with me after these clowns leave, we can shop for scarves. _Someone_ won’t _lend me one_ ,” he snarls, glaring at a good half of Shitenhouji.

 

Kouharu giggles, and flips the scarf around his own neck. “Wear them like a badge of honor, Bandana-kun! Or...that _other_ nickname…”

 

Kaidou abruptly turns purple. “You said that was just last night!”

 

Zaizen doesn't look up from his phone to quip: "You're gross, too, Kaoru." 

 

"Scarves in the middle of summer are dumb, though," Ryouma protests, listing a little to the side courtesy of Kintarou's continued clinging. "I don't wanna." 

 

"Is it just me, Shiraishi, or does Kin-chan's new boyfriend look like some Tokyo high roller?" Kenya hisses underneath his breath, tapping Shiraishi's shoulder. "I hope Kin-chan doesn't end up like Yuushi, _obsessed_ with this kind of high society life now that he's been exposed to it--"

 

"I'm from America," Ryouma deadpans. "You _know_ that." 

 

"Even worse! Suspicious. Koharu, you need to like, give him an interview or something."

 

This wasn't part of the plan. Ryouma starts slowly inching away, thinking that Shitenhouji is less than good. 

 

“So rude, Kenya-kun!” Koharu cries. 

 

“Yeah, Kenya! Leave Koshimae alone! I’ll throw a car at you!”

 

The way half of Shitenhouji pales says that isn’t nearly the idle threat it really should be, coming from a 13-year-old just over 5 feet tall. 

 

“Besides,” Koharu adds, eyes glinting behind his glasses, “what kind of information specialist would I be if I didn’t already know...everything?” He says the rest with a long wink to Ryouma that is clearly meant to be anything but reassuring. “I’ll catch you up on the train!”

 

“Just….get on the train.” Shiraishi, courtesy of his team, is fighting a monster headache. He rubs at his forehead with a bandaged hand. “Kin-chan, say goodbye to your new friend.”

 

“Don’t wanna!”

 

“Kin-chan, if you don’t get on the train—”

 

“I’ll run back to Osaka! I don’t care!”

 

“Gin, Chitose, please carry Kin-chan onto the train.”

 

Kintarou _wants_ to go for a kiss, but remembers too well that Tokyo Station is probably not a great place for that. Instead, he squeezes Ryouma’s hand, hopefully hard enough that he understands just how difficult it is to leave. “Soon, Koshimae! You’ll come to Osaka and we’ll eat takoyaki!”

 

"Uh huh." Shitenhouji is weird. Ryouma is really sure that he's never going there permanently. He gives Kintarou's hand a long squeeze all the same, and after a moment's hesitation, tugs off his jersey to awkwardly shove it into the other boy's arms. "You wore it all day yesterday, anyway," he mutters, yanking his hat down. "I'll just say I lost it and get a new one." 

 

There's some weird, high-pitched cooing that comes from _god knows well_ , and Ryouma wants to die. "Let's _go,_ Kaidou-sempai." 

 

Kaidou takes Ryouma’s arm, steering him away even as Kintarou shrieks, “I’ll wear it every day, Koshimaeeeeeeeee—”

 

“You don’t want to hang around with those people,” Kaidou mutters, even if his frown lines look a hell of a lot lighter today than usual. “Trouble, all of them. They _know things.”_

 

Ryouma shrugs and tries to hike up the collar of his shirt to hide his really obviously marked up neck. He also tries not to miss Kintarou already. Stupid. "I dunno, Kaidou-sempai. You seem pretty happy."

 

“That’s….not the point.” Kaidou ducks his head, and leads him down the long hallways of Tokyo Station. “Echizen...look, as next year’s captain...listen, you need to understand one thing about all this homo crap.”

 

The stare Ryouma fixes upon him is really uninterested. "I'm not wearing a scarf in the middle of summer, if this is where this is going." 

 

Kaidou scowls at him. “No. What you need to understand is that literally no one on our team thinks anyone knows.”

 

Ryouma blinks up at him. "But they're all really obvious. Like…especially Oishi-sempai and Eiji-sempai…and, well, Fuji-sempai and Kawamura-sempai keep making kissy faces at one another, and once, I was in the room when Tezuka-buchou and Atobe-sempai got drunk."

 

Kaidou shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Also, literally all of them will swear to you that they like girls, or it’s just a one-time thing. They genuinely think no one can tell.” It’s an absurd relief, to talk like this the way he only has twice in his life, once with Inui when _he’d_ been the drunk one, and once last night, from which he’s still riding a sort of high. “It’s a Japanese thing.”

 

"…Weird," Ryouma says, shrugging tiredly. That sounds like a lot of work, and really stressful, and he's not into that. Japan is strange. "But I'm not like that. It's not like I'm gonna _broadcast it_ , though. I already told Kintarou not to tell anyone that isn't on his team, which is all full of homos, anyway, so it's fine." 

 

“Look, it’s not just….” Kaidou frowns. “You _do_ know that you can get in trouble at school for this, right? Like, expelled? And what it could do to your pro career?” God, being a captain is _hard_ , and it hasn’t even started yet.

 

"How is anyone at school gonna know?" Ryouma points out. "Kintarou doesn't go to Seigaku. And I had sex with Atobe-sempai and Fuji-sempai, too, and no one ever found out. Also, when I go pro, I'm _really_ not gonna care. If they don't like my boyfriend, then I don't like them." 

 

Kaidou grabs him by the shoulder, making him stop, dragging them out of the main thoroughfare. Quietly, harshly, he demands, “Name a gay ATP tennis player. A man.”

 

Ryouma scowls, but thinks, and then shrugs, wriggling out from underneath Kaidou's grasp. "I'll be the first one, then. I don't care." Even if he has a point…ugh. No, thinking like that is dumb. Irritated, Ryouma rubs at his sore neck. "You're making it so weird, Kaidou-sempai. Atobe-sempai never worries about this stuff."

 

“Wait ten years. He’ll be married. Men like him always do that.” Kaidou takes off his bandana, rubbing at his head, then puts it back on. “I’m trying to be a good sempai, Echizen.”

 

"…Atobe-sempai likes Tezuka-buchou a lot, though." The idea of Atobe _marrying_ anyone doesn't really click at all, actually. Ryouma smacks that thought away for good measure. "How do you know so much about this stuff, anyway? Are _real_ homos in Japan just born with innate knowledge, or…"

 

Kaidou jams his hands in his pockets, looking down. “Not everyone has a rich family to protect them.” There’s more--that he’s not smart like Tezuka, not brave like Oishi, not set-up in life like Kawamura, that he has one thing and only one thing that he’s good at, that a good Japanese man doesn’t love housework and puppies and exercising with other men and wearing women’s clothing, that there is such a thing as self-preservation, and enough internet research to accomplish it--but Echizen doesn’t need to know all of that. “In ten years,” he says finally, “they’ll all be married, because they’re all better at faking it than we are, and they want to have lives and careers. You’re good enough to go pro. So’s Tezuka. Tch, he should be having this conversation with you, not me.”

 

Ryouma's head slowly tilts. "Tezuka-buchou doesn't ever say much, though," he says matter-of-factly. "And you could go pro, too, Kaidou-sempai. You beat Kirihara, didn't you? He wants to go pro, he screams about it all the time. Maybe you could even be a coach in America or something." 

 

Kaidou’s face turns slowly, painfully red, and he ducks his head, trying not to pass out from the sudden rush of blood to the head. He hisses, and looks around for a water fountain. “Th-thank you, Echizen,” he chokes out, still blushing furiously. Not that it’s a dream of his, or anything--to be a trainer, a coach, with his own gym and facilities, to have players trusting him, putting their futures in his hands…

 

“Maybe you could--work with me on my English next year.” _Anything to get out of Japan._

 

"Sure. Your grades are already pretty good, aren't they? So you've got a good foundation. I mean, also, Tezuka-buchou left the team to you, so he obviously thinks you're good. Kaidou-sempai, don't turn that red, it's weird." 

 

Kaidou scowls, but knows it doesn’t mean too much when he’s still lit up like a fire hydrant. “Just...ask your dad about Bill Tilden some time,” he mutters. “And come buy a scarf with your sempai so you don’t get a lot of awkward questions. Try to remember you’re a national champion. What if one of those damn reporters puts your photo on the cover of a magazine looking like you do?”

 

"But they all took my picture yesterday." Even still, Ryouma trots after him with a sigh, grabbing onto the back of the other boy's jersey so that he doesn't lose Kaidou in the crowds. "A scarf is going to make me look way less cooler than a national champion should look." 

 

“Those marks make you look like a--well, you know,” Kaidou mutters, and drags the boy through the crowds to a stall that sells men’s apparel, pointedly ignoring the one right next to it with all the laces and silks. “And you know how those reporters are. They could turn up today to do some stupid follow-up thing. Here, try the ascot.”

 

A thought suddenly occurs to him. "Is _this_ why Tezuka-buchou wears all those scarves?" 

 

“Like I said,” Kaidou mutters. “They really think no one knows.”

 

Ryouma, unconcerned, flips out his phone and sends a text.

 

**To: Atobe-sempai**

**Subject: withholding information**

**tezuka-buchou wears scarves because u've been chewing on him, not because he's stylish. also my neck is still 1 big bruise and why didn't u warn me**

 

**To: Royal Brat**

**Subject: Obviously :)**

**You did not try the metal trick. Also your captain is delicious and I cannot be blamed. He says you have let your guard down.**

 

Kaidou looks at a silk plaid number, then eyes the price tag and sets it back down. “Ascots have less material,” he growls. “Why aren’t they less expensive?”

 

**To: Atobe-Sempai**

**Subject: rude**

**kitchen was occupied. my guard wasn't down i was just busy, tell buchou i am mad at him too**

 

"Because fashion," Ryouma grumpily answers. "Just pick out whatever for both of us, consider it a present from my dad because it's his cash, anyway." 

 


	26. Fuji & Mizuki

He should, Mizuki realizes far too belatedly, have arranged a meeting place. 

 

Fuji Shuusuke, bitch that he is, will take any reason to lord whatever small power he has over him. He’ll take that power he has over everyone, forcing their cooperation, beaming that innocent, perfect smile at them no matter how treacherous the true person underneath actually is. 

 

It’s what makes them so alike, after all.

 

Mizuki keeps his phone set to vibrate while he tends to Yuuta. It was stupid to drag him to the game today, though he’d thought that maybe, _maybe_ , seeing his brother play would have snapped him out of some of this funk he’s been in. It hadn’t worked, of course. Nothing does except sex, rough and a little alarming, and Mizuki is increasingly finding himself rather not up to the task.

 

He makes an effort, though it’s more difficult than usual, and Yuuta is more obvious than usual. It’s with another man’s name in his ears that he makes Yuuta come, forces it out of him, though not as forceful as the other boy wants, and puts Yuuta to bed (like a child, like someone that _needs_ him, so trusting it makes Mizuki sick and not affectionate at all, dammit), and checks his phone.

 

Still nothing. That _bitch_.

 

Finally, he loses his patience and texts, because he remembers the number even if he pretends he doesn’t. He could have dialed any number he’s ever seen from memory, not that that kind of perfect recall does him much good against a supposed _genius_ , he thinks bitterly.

 

**To: Shuusuke-kun**

**Subject: Tonight**

**Before it turns into tomorrow??????**

 

Oh, right. He _was_ supposed to meet up with Mizuki, wasn't he. 

 

Considering how the thought turns his stomach, Fuji almost ignores the text and goes back to huddling underneath blankets and thinking about Taka-san and tennis and Taka-san. Then there's the reminder that this whole meeting has to do with _Yuuta_ , and though that still makes him sick…

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: Re: Tonight**

**Where? It's late and I don't like you.**

 

Irritably, Mizuki remembers being convinced as a child that everyone got one secret murder. If only his sister had been right.

 

**To: Shuusuke-kun**

**Subject: Re: Tonight**

**My information says you’re likely to be at that sushi place (=** **｀ェ** **´=) we can do it at the park around the corner.**

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: Re: Tonight**

**What the fuck is that face.**

 

**To: Shuusuke-kun**

**Subject: Re: Tonight**

**It’s a smirk! An angry one! Meet me at the park in 20 minutes!!!!**

 

**To: Human Garbage**

**Subject: Re: Tonight**

**It looks like a chipmunk, but ok.**

 

Fuji sighs, pushing himself up onto one hand and wondering if he looks anything _close_ to suitable for public. It's been a _night_. "Taka-san, I have to go converse with some human garbage." 

 

The sated, happy look on Taka’s face vanishes. “No. Don’t go. Please? Or I’ll come with you, I don’t want you talking to that bastard.”

 

"I'll be back, I'm not going to stay out all night with him." Fuji flops back down, petting Taka's hair. "I don't want to talk to him, either, but it's about Yuuta, so I really should."

 

For a brief moment, it looks as if Taka is going to _order_ him not to go, to simply grab him and capture him and not let him. For a brief moment, he really wishes he were the kind of man who could.

 

Instead, he relents, and nods. “If you have to, I guess. Should I come and watch? I can hide in the bushes. What if he has friends, what if they try something on you to get back at what I did?”

 

"Taka-san, don't be silly. Of course he doesn't have friends, he's _Mizuki_. Ah, where did you throw my pants, I think I need those for public interaction."

 

“I hate your pants,” Taka mutters rebelliously, but picks them up off the ground and hands them over anyway. “If you don’t come home--er, back--in an hour, I’ll come looking for you, okay? Or text me?”

 

"Don't worry, my phone's coming with me," Fuji reassures him as he gets dressed, unsure if he should be pleased about this increasingly protective behavior, or annoyed by it. He decides to be pleased, considering his chest does weird little tightening things and Taka is just _so_ strong and…ah, no, shut up, he has places to _go_. 

 

He probably still looks like he got run over by a truck (good, he'll gloat about it), but that doesn't stop him from making it to the park with time to spare, and he neatly seats himself on the nearest bench, idly wondering if human garbage is good for compost. 

 

God, just the sight of Fuji Shuusuke does strange things to Mizuki--anger, resentment, jealousy, and a hefty dollop of unavoidable arousal all clash together until he’s laughing, low and furtive. For a second, he contemplates asking Fuji if they want to drop the posturing and the insults and just _talk about Yuuta_ , but that feels too much like admitting a weakness. And that is a good emoticon, dammit!

 

“Fuji Shuusuke,” he says, stepping out of the shadows--yes, he’d chosen his location quite well. “I see you didn’t bring the wild animal that obviously attacked you.” Even the memory of Kawamura makes his lip curl, and he instinctively looks around, making sure the hulking lump isn’t skulking around with that delinquent friend of his, ready to finish the job and actually kill him this time the way his friend had threatened. Maybe someday he’ll fall asleep without being jittered awake by that memory.

 

"No, I left him leashed at home," Fuji sweetly offers, not even bothering to stand--not even bothering to look up from where he's checking his e-mail on his phone, actually. "But even as well as he's trained, I can't leave him alone for long, so what's this about?"

 

“Ah, not housebroken,” Mizuki says with a sniff, and wavers for a moment before finally sitting down at the opposite end of the bench. Then, dropping the pretense, he flatly asks, “What did Yuuta do to you?”

 

" _Do?_ " Fuji glances up at that, his eyebrows raising. "Mostly, he mouth-breathed on my neck and skirted around the issue of wanting to fuck me for about half an hour, then cried on my face."

 

Mizuki lets out a long breath. “Good, good.” Then, realizing how it sounds, he amends, “He can’t really talk about it. All he’s said is that he ruined everything, he ruined you, he attacked you, and he’s ruined both of your lives forever. I honestly couldn’t tell whether he’d confessed or whether he’d raped you. And while I don’t want you to get the wrong idea and think I’d feel sorry for you,” he clarifies, “that would be a hell of a lot harder to pull him back from, don’t you think?”

 

"…If you _really_ think Yuuta is actually capable of hurting anyone, then you're more of an idiot than I thought," Fuji sighs, tucking his phone away. "He's just upset right now. He'll get over it." That's better than admitting that he doesn't know how to deal with this and that he can't even really look at his brother right now, especially to Mizuki.

 

Mizuki stares, all acts dropped for a brief second. “Really? That’s how easy it is to you?” 

 

Mizuki Hajime knows that he is not a nice person. Honestly, he’s never cared. But after having Yuuta cry himself sick over and over again, clinging to _Mizuki_ of all people, Mizuki who is easily worse than the person he’s desperate for…

 

It had been a surreal experience.

 

Fuji shrugs tiredly as he leans back. "Are you upset because you give a shit, or because someone else pulls his strings better than you do?" he asks, glancing to Mizuki. "I tried giving him an out, and telling him it was okay, and--" His stomach flips, and he reminds himself that he's not obligated in any way to tell Mizuki about _any_ of this. "I even thought about humoring him, just once."

 

Mizuki flaps a hand, unperturbed. “That would have just made it worse, I think. Good lord, it isn’t as if he just wants to fuck you, you know.”

 

"… _Isn't it_ , though?" Fuji slowly presses, trying to keep the confusion off of his face because he _really_ doesn't like not knowing something around Mizuki. It makes him nervous. _Dammit, Yuuta._ "Considering all he really talked about was the idea of having sex with me and calling out my name when he's fucking you."

 

Mizuki glares at him, then scoffs. “As if he ever tops. Dear lord, you’re dense for a genius.” It isn’t pity that moves him to tell the rest, just...something, whatever it is, that makes him want Yuuta to be safe and whole again, as soppy as that sounds. “He said your name when he was asleep a long time before he said it when I was in him, Shuusuke-kun. And I don’t mean wet dreams.” His mouth twists. “Nightmares, good dreams, all the same, always calling out for you. You had single rooms growing up, didn’t you? He told me you always wanted to sleep in his bed, but he wouldn’t let you. Now you know why.”

 

Ugh. The longer this goes on, the more Fuji feels like he has really, really fucked up. Normally, he's at least _aware_ when he fucks up, and that's the worst part of all of this. "He sure tells you a lot of things," Fuji crossly notes. "I wonder if it's to make you stop talking about tableware."

 

Mizuki smiles thinly. “Maybe it’s because someone is finally listening instead of simply projecting onto him.” The smile vanishes. “And my taste in tableware is _exquisite_.”

 

"At least I project good things onto him. There's _nothing_ good about paisley." 

 

“We didn’t come here to discuss my taste level--my _excellent_ taste level!” Mizuki snarls, annoyed at himself for letting Fuji Shuusuke get the better of him _again_. “I just came here to tell you...leave him alone or treat him right. Like a real brother, not a doll that you can hug and kiss and touch and squeeze then abandon.”

 

"What do you _think_ I'm trying to do?" 

 

Ah, whoops. That's a nerve. Fuji really doesn't like it when someone manages to push _his_ buttons, but the accusation of abandoning his brother is definitely one of them. He reaches over, grabbing Mizuki by the collar to roughly yank him closer. "I have _never_ abandoned him," he lowly, dangerously says. " _You're_ the piece of filth that treats him like he's a doll, so don't you dare tell me how to deal with him." 

 

“I,” Mizuki grinds out through his teeth, “am the one who’s been nearly _murdered_ for being with him, and the one who’s been doing increasingly traumatizing things to get him to try to sleep through the night, _Shuusuke-kun_ , all because you threatened to have me _killed_ if I didn’t leave him and then go back to him--and you’re accusing _me_ of pulling the strings here?”

 

"Don't act like you hate it so much. Didn't you _like_ having a little marionette to play with before?" Fuji releases Mizuki with a shove. "I assumed that you, of all people, would enjoy having someone constantly pretend that you're me." It's fine that his stomach keeps twisting into little knots. Definitely. 

 

The look on Mizuki’s face turns ugly. He’s hardly a very physical person, but he does manage to get very close to Fuji, right up in his face as his expression darkens. “You bitch,” he spits, “this isn’t about _me_. I’ve been cleaning up _your mess_ , and it’s a lot of work! It would serve you right if I broke up with him right now and let him deal with this on his own! Do you think he’d come running back to you? Or not? Where would he go?”

 

"Do you think I _wanted_ this to happen? I just found out _yesterday_ that he felt like this!" Fuji snaps back, his eyes flashing. "Don't think for _one second_ that I wanted to encourage this or hurt him. The only thing I've _ever_ wanted to do was protect him, and I can't even get that right." His cheeks flush in frustration, and he climbs to his feet, putting distance between them again. "Break up with him if you're so fed up. If nothing you do makes him happy and nothing I do makes him happy, then--" He cuts himself off, swallowing hard, _really_ hating that he's around Mizuki right now and wondering if he can just cut his throat or something to make this all go away. It seems pretty logical at the moment.

 

It’s Mizuki that breaks the stand-off first, looking away with a scowl. “I’m not going to break up with him,” he admits, as if it’s some stupid secret. “I only meant that after all of this, you should at least give me the bare minimum of credit--if I was only with him because he was easy to manipulate, I would have chosen a much easier target. It isn’t as if I couldn’t.”

 

He could. Has, in the past, but none of them had responded quite like Yuuta. None of them had been quite so hungry for his touch, had been so ready for his kisses, had grabbed at him and tried to drown in him the same way.

 

None of them have ever _needed_ him before. Him, Mizuki Hajime. The idea is preposterous.

 

"I don't believe you." It's a rather weary statement, and there's not much vitriol behind it. "But I don't care. You're doing less harm than I am, so whatever." 

 

“Tch. Both of you,” Mizuki mutters, twirling his hair around his finger. “Both of you Fuji brothers are so content to whine and cry and talk about how pathetic and damaging you are. It doesn’t take a genius like me to see why the two of you are so miserable.” He ticks causals off on his fingers. “Yuuta falls in love with you. You, having no sense of boundaries, squeeze and kiss and pet him. Yuuta pushes you away, you squeeze him tighter. Finally he snaps, you push him away for once, and now you both look like you want to kill yourselves. Good lord, you’re exhausting. Just have him over for that disgusting curry and treat him like he’s your precious brother again. Though maybe with a bit less touching.”

 

"That's assuming he'll actually show up," Fuji tiredly points out, "or listen to me. Or answer my calls or texts. Also, you can't be a genius if you use horrible emoticons like earlier." 

 

“Why do you have to be such a cunt when I’m trying to help you?” Mizuki snarls. _Damn_ , but he wishes he were the kind of man who could have a physical altercation without simply, well, falling down. “My sisters have more balls than you when it comes to this kind of thing! Just ask him to come home whether he comes or not so he knows you don’t hate him!” _And maybe he’ll stop begging me to hurt him every night, because that’s all kinds of terrifying that I don’t know how to deal with._

 

"I already told him I didn't hate him and he didn't listen." Fuji huffs, and flops back down onto the bench, deciding that picking at his cuticles is a better past time than thinking too hard about this. "How bad is he that you actually _want_ to shove him back onto me for awhile?"

 

“He wants me to hurt him.” Mizuki’s voice comes out flat, which he supposes is better than coming out as shaken as he usually feels before, during, and after. “He kept saying he killed you. But by all means, stop asking after you’ve tried _once_ , I’m sure he’s fine.”

 

Fuji gives him a sideways look, and then reaches out to pat Mizuki's shoulder, maybe-sympathetically. "I'm sure that's very traumatizing for someone as vanilla as you." 

 

“It’s not--I’m not--anyone would—” Mizuki’s face twists, and he slaps the other boy, heart sinking when he sees how weak that handprint is. “Are you _really_ going to stand here and criticize the way I fuck your brother, you piece of shit?”

 

"Echizen's cat hits harder," Fuji idly muses, shaking it off and tucking his hair behind one ear. "No wonder Yuuta keeps asking for it, you obviously aren't getting it right the first time." 

 

“And you’re so good at it?” Mizuki challenges, trying not to shake out his hand, because _ow_. “You wouldn’t know what to do any better than I would!”

 

Fuji offers him a very accomodating smile. 

 

Mizuki rolls his eyes. “Prove it.”

 

Fuji picks a second more at one uneven fingernail, shakes out his hand, and calmly backhands Mizuki across the face with a resounding _crack_. "Hold on," he says without skipping a beat, fishing out his phone, "I have to text Taka-san that I'm going to be later if you want a proper lesson." 

 

Mizuki hits the ground hard. It’s far from the first time in his life, but he’s fairly certain he’s never seen stars quite like _this_ before. He manages to catch himself, sort of, on one knee and his hands, and barely manages to straighten by the time the phone is away again. “You--you hit me! That’s not sex!”

 

The look on Fuji's face is a mix of boredom and honest pity. Yuuta has _horrible_ taste. "Get back down there, I was going to use you as a foot rest. You're right, though; that isn't sex, it's foreplay." 

 

There’s something about the force of nature that is Fuji Shuusuke in a bad mood that Mizuki can’t help but find attractive. Slowly, he lowers himself down to the ground again, warning, “I don’t like feet. That’s weird.”

 

"It's not about what you like," Fuji sweetly informs him, and promptly digs his heel right into Mizuki's shoulder. "You're not getting it, dumbass. If Yuuta wants you to boss him around and tell him that he's filth and that he's nothing more than your toy to use, then you do it and you make him happy, because _someone_ has to." 

 

Okay, that’s seriously uncomfortable. “How could anyone get turned on by that?” he demands, swatting ineffectually at Fuji’s foot. “Jesus Christ, I’ve never been softer.”

 

"Listen, everyone has preferences. I'm just telling you what will get him off." Fuji pauses, shudders, and quickly performs a mental erase on that. "I'm just telling you what will get people like him off," he says instead. "Make him suck you off while he's down there or something, call him names, whatever. What did he want before that freaked you out so badly?" 

 

“Nothing weird like this,” Mizuki grumbles, sitting cross-legged on the ground and folding his arms. “He just…” Ugh, it won’t do Yuuta any good if he gets all blushing and maidenly over it. “Normal things. But he doesn’t like them to stop. A spanking, but no matter how hard--he was so _tense_ , but he didn’t want to relax, and my hand wasn’t enough.” His hand had hurt for hours, actually, and that had only been for a few minutes, before Yuuta had pressed the hairbrush into his hand and looked at him, pleading and tortured. “He wanted me to leave marks. Deep ones.”

 

God, Yuuta is an idiot. Fuji has to wonder how they ended up being so _different_ when it comes to things like this. He irritably, tiredly rubs a hand over his eyes. "People like that get off faster and easier if you do things like this, though. He--they just don't know it until they try it. Just tie his hands up with one of your ugly scarves, make him get on his knees, and--" Fuji leans forward, grabbing up a handful of Mizuki's hair right near the scalp to firmly pull. "Tell him to get to work, just like that. Pretend he's fucking up and slap him for it, repeat ad nauseum." He releases Mizuki again with a shove, shrugging as he pokes him in the chest with one foot. "It's not rocket science." 

 

The whole idea of it turns Mizuki’s stomach a little. One finger moves to his hair, twirling it nervously, and he mutters, “That’s not sex. That’s just cruelty. Why would anyone want that? He already thinks enough bad things about himself, I don’t want to put _more_ in his head.”

 

"You're making it worse by not doing it, because _then_ he thinks it's weird and perverted. It's just a game, you idiot." Fuji's head hurts. "Theoretically, at any rate, if you're just keeping it in the bedroom. You obviously don't really want to hurt him--someone. Where's the harm in indulging him--someone, dammit, _carefully?_ " 

 

Mizuki lets out a frustrated noise. “There is really no justice in the world,” he complains. “Why couldn’t we switch places, and I’ll be the brother and you be the lover? How does he even _know_ he wants these things? I know full well he was a virgin when I first had him.”

 

"Remember when I talked about pulling out your teeth? I could kick them out right now."

 

Mizuki starts to snarl out an answer, but stops at the last second, settling down onto the ground and not meeting Fuji’s eyes. He takes a deep breath, and admits, “I don’t know what to do. This is awful and it must be for you, too. If one of my sisters told me…” He gags slightly just at the thought. “I couldn’t even imagine.”

 

"You don't _have_ to do anything that he tells you, you know," Fuji points out on a long sigh, leaning forward to set his elbows onto his knees. "And with sisters, it's definitely different. Yumiko's a loon, too, but at least she loses interest quickly." 

 

Mizuki’s eyes dart over to Fuji, startled. Then, a little frown creases between his brows. “What the hell did your parents _do_ to you?” he asks, stunned.

 

Fuji blinks, then shrugs. "My father shares my wonderful sense of humor, and my mother is usually in need of a sabbatical. Otherwise, nothing." 

 

“Did you grow up next to a power plant or something? Were they first cousins?” Mizuki sighs, head dropping down to his hands. “You couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to want someone and to just be...not what they want.” Of course he can’t. He’s a genius, a model, the picture of sly perfection.

 

There's a pause while Fuji thinks. "I guess they did have the same last name before they got married. I should probably ask about that sometime." Then, he shrugs it off, sighing as he looks at Mizuki. "You're such an idiot. Do you really think I've never had a crush on someone and known that it wasn't ever going to work out?" 

 

“You?” Mizuki laughs, bitter and low. “Who in their right mind could turn _you_ down?” There’s something of a tamped-down hunger there, mixed with the bitterness.

 

"Just how hard is your dick that it makes you blind? None other than Tezuka, of course," Fuji sighs wistfully. "He _did_ throw me against a wall today, though. That's going to be some great material for later on."

 

“Ah. That does explain why Yuuta is so intimidated by him,” Mizuki muses. Then he puts a hand in his lap, just to surreptitiously check that Fuji had been being facetious and he wasn’t _actually_ erect without knowing it.

 

"Is he? Ah, that's sad, because I don't stand a chance at all. Tezuka's infatuated with Eurotrash." Fuji impassively reaches over and rests a hand on Mizuki's shoulder. "Look, there you go. Now it's hard." 

 

Mizuki glares balefully up at him. It’s hard to be angry at someone for being, essentially, just like him, for getting off on the same petty power games that he always has, and for quite simply being better and more efficient at it. “You _do_ know that if you ever wanted Yuuta to leave me, all you’d have to do is let me fuck you.”

 

Fuji smiles, and pulls his hand away. "So I've heard. That's an odd rule that he has. Fortunately, the idea of your dick in me literally makes me want to die." 

 

“It’s a severely limiting quirk, from what I’ve heard. Why restrict the dating pool so drastically?” Mizuki trails a nail down Fuji’s hand, idly. “You might like it.” Dimly, he isn’t even really sure _why_ he’s doing this, except that it’s _Fuji_ , and in some way there’s nothing else he _can_ do.

 

This is pretty funny, in a way. "Uh huh. And what about your dick is going to make me come when literally no one else can get me off like that." Look, Mizuki doesn't need to know about Taka's skill set.

 

Mizuki raises an eyebrow. He wouldn’t think of this with literally anyone else...but it _is_ Fuji Shuusuke…

 

Mentally shrugging, he rests a hand on Fuji’s thigh. “Then maybe you should tell me what’s so good about yours.”

 

"…You really are trash," Fuji slowly informs him, trying to ignore the weird way that his skin both crawls and twitches pleasantly. It's probably just the idea of being able to grind Mizuki's face into the dirt. Probably. "I could tell Yuuta that you instigated this, and he'd never be with you again." 

 

“You could,” Mizuki agrees, and the thought of that brings an almost pleasant ache to his chest. Is that what it feels like to have something to lose? Interesting. “But you won’t do that.” He doesn’t move his hand from where it rests on long, lean muscle, and digs his fingers in slightly.

 

"You assume one hell of a lot. You _really_ want me to have something to hold over your head, don't you?" Fuji presses, his eyebrows raising. "No wonder you can't slap him around like he wants; sounds like you'd rather be on your back regularly instead." 

 

Mizuki’s face twists, and he snatches his hand back. “Is that the kind of filth you think I should be saying to him?” he demands, half angry and half genuinely curious. God, if it were anyone but _Fuji Shuusuke_ , he’d never, ever have offered. It isn’t as if he hasn’t had the opportunity before; St. Rudolph’s has no girls, and Mizuki knows how he looks. If he hadn’t before with his sisters dressing him up and putting clips in his hair, he certainly has after three years of private all-boy’s Catholic school with horny classmates. 

 

It’s never been something that appeals to him before. Not with Yuuta, not with the rest of his team...but ah, something about that false smile of Fuji Shuusuke makes him lick his lips and _wonder_.

 

"What, do you want me to whisper sweet nothings in your ear and tell you that you're pretty? I mean, I guess Yuuta doesn't do that, but…" Fuji trails off. "The problem is that I'm really not drunk enough for this, and I'm trying this new thing where I at least try to be a good boyfriend for like, a day. It happens to coincide without breaking Yuuta's one rule about who he dates, so that kind of helps." _Also, I'm prettier, so it's hard to give you a compliment._

 

“There’s a bar two blocks…” Mizuki trails off before he can complete the suggestion, and sighs. “Can we drop the bullshit for a second and actually talk about what the hell we’re going to do about Yuuta?”

 

Fuji's expression sobers for a split second before he glances away. "I don't know what you expect me to do at this point. Every time I've ever tried to fix something in the past, it's just gotten worse."

 

“You literally found out about this yesterday and have tried precisely nothing.”

 

"I'm just talking about _in general_ with Yuuta. As far as this goes, I _did_ tell him that it was okay and that I didn't hate him and that we could just pretend it never happened…"

 

Mizuki raises his eyebrows. “And? Then? That’s all fine, but he didn’t believe you. At least tell me you _attempted_ to go after him or call him.”

 

Fuji slowly admits: "I kind of called Taka-san over and then had sex with him all night instead."

 

Mizuki tilts his head to the side, and says calmly, “I think I’m going to actually not respond to that, because it’s not constructive right now. _Call him_. Text him. And if he doesn’t respond to you, I’ll let you know when it’s a good time to come to our dorm room, because he won’t listen to me when I tell him to talk to you.”

 

"Listen, it was make-up sex, I needed it," is the grumpy mutter underneath Fuji's breath. "And _anyway_ , you know Yuuta isn't going to respond to my calls or texts, so why don't you just grab him by the ear and drag him home again or something?" 

 

“And if I do?” Mizuki asks, not sounding nearly as confident as he likes. “At our dorm, he’s in charge, he has the upper hand--well, on you, not on me. That’s not the point. If he were here, it would be in your domain. That’s why he left, Shuusuke-kun.”

 

"Stop calling me that. Fine, then, call me when he drops by. I guess." The idea makes Fuji want to rear up and hiss in protest. Maybe Mizuki is onto something about power balances. 

 

Mizuki nods slowly. “Very well. Ah...and Shuusuke-kun, if this doesn’t work? I think you should leave him alone. For a long time.” The words are hurtful, Mizuki knows, and for once he doesn’t mean to be. “And I’ll tell him you simply don’t know what you’re missing, and it was your fault in the first place, because it will give him something to cling on to. So let’s hope this works.”

 

"What did you think I was going to do anyway?" Fuji wearily shoots back, letting his head fall into his hands for a moment. "I had plans to never even talk to him again. I might still just do that, because he might be happier."

 

“If you do,” Mizuki says frankly, “he will lose his entire family. He won’t talk to your parents again, you know that. He’ll be terrified you said something, or that they look too much like you, or that you’ll come home unexpectedly. He’s only thirteen. He doesn’t deserve to lose them and you all at once.”

 

"So bring him home and make him part of yours. He'd probably be happier, anyway."

 

“As part of—” Mizuki’s laugh is high-pitched and a little hysterical. “No one could be happy around them.”

 

Fuji's eyebrows arch high. "You think anyone could be happier around _our_ family?" 

 

“I think you haven’t met mine.” Disgust twists Mizuki’s face; he hadn’t meant to bring them up. Brother’s mentor, brother’s boyfriend or not, there are some things that he truly doesn’t want The Genius Fuji Shuusuke asking about. He stands, brushing off his trousers. “I’ll text you. Be ready.”

 

"Should I tell him about how you came onto me on multiple occasions when I show up?" Fuji lightly offers. "That might break the ice in an interesting way."

 

Mizuki stares at Fuji as if he’s suddenly started speaking Greek--and for all he knows, Fuji could. “Do you honestly hate me more than you love him? Christ, I can’t believe what awful taste he has.”

 

"It was a joke. But as a matter of fact, I do hate you quite a bit, though, so if I have a chance to push you down while still loving him, I'll take it," Fuji sighs, rocking up onto his feet with a slow stretch of his arms over his head. "Don't make yourself out to be some saint when you've done nothing but hurt him before, too."

 

Mizuki twirls a finger--yes, yes, get on with it. “Spare me the bitter rehash of our storied history, Shuusuke-kun. Go deflect on someone else to make yourself feel better. You just can’t _stand_ to think that I might actually be _good_ for him, can you?”

 

"Mm, you'd be right. Remember, I really hate you. Fortunately, I really don't think you're good for him at all." Fuji folds his arms, shrugging. "He flat out told me that he was dating you because you were 'close enough.'" 

 

“Then perhaps I’ll leave him like you so obviously desire, and he can deal with his broken heart alone.” Mizuki hears the anger shaking in his voice, and he stares right at Fuji, less than a foot between them, less than an inch’s difference in their heights. “Hate me or no, you need me to be there for him right now, so temper that foul tongue of yours.”

 

"When you start doing something that actually does some good, _then_ you can tell me what to do," Fuji quietly tells him, stepping back to walk away. "Sleep well, Hajime-chan." 

 


	27. Sanada & Yukimura

_"Fault!"_

 

_"Double fault! 81 all!"_

 

It's not a good thing to wake up to, not when it feels like he's been hit by a truck, and then backed up over five times after that. 

 

Yukimura bolts up straight from where he lies, heart thudding, shoulders tight and high, and oh, does he regret it courtesy of the pain that ripples down his spine and through his muscles. He far more slowly flops back down, shutting his eyes, breathing in a long, deep breath. A dream--no, scratch that, a nightmare, one that he lived what feels like ten minutes ago.

 

Except he's definitely not on the tennis court that he last remembers, and nowhere near Echizen Ryouma.

 

Home? Hospital? Cracking open his eyes, Yukimura prays for the latter to not be true, and is rewarded. That being said, it's certainly not his bedroom, either, and that starts to make him worry. 

 

Investigating. That's what he's going to do. Yukimura rakes a hand back through his hair when he sits up, attempting to piece together at least the past few days. 

 

Nothing processes since that ill-fated finals match. 

 

Maybe he died. Tennis is a nice way to go, and at least it's _warm_ here. And cozy. And he's tucked underneath enough blankets that getting out of them is a new battle to be won. 

 

Some sound alerts Sanada, and he reminds himself to walk, not run, into the room for fear of spooking Yukimura. He has a large fish dangling from one hand, no shirt on, and a damp pair of shorts. He pauses for a moment in the doorway, and the customary stern expression settles into something softer. “Good morning.”

 

"I definitely did die," Yukimura concludes out loud, staring wide-eyed at Sanada for a moment. "With a picturesque heaven and everything…"

 

Sanada snorts at this silliness, then takes just a second to set the fish down in the kitchen, washing his hands before joining Yukimura in the bedroom. “You were out for a long time,” he agrees. “They took your staples out, and you didn’t even flinch.”

 

Right. Okay, less dead, more alive, weirdly enough. Yukimura reaches a hand back reflexively, so used to those obnoxious pieces of metal that the idea that they're _gone_ doesn't even process. Still sore-- _everything_ is sore, let's be fair, but not feeling those things through the yukata he's wrapped up in helps. "I don't remember that at all," he admits, his brow furrowing. "I…mostly, the last thing I remember is the last point of the match." 

 

He doesn't need to be told that he lost. 

 

“That,” Sanada says gently, “was the day before yesterday.” 

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand out to cup Yukimura’s face, gently stroking his cheek with a thumb. “You’ve been resting. Your parents had you signed out into my care.” His mouth twists as he admits, “Yagyuu’s father pulled all kinds of strings to let that happen.”

 

Yukimura twists away, immediately bristling. "Good for him, I guess. He's just trying to make up for the fact he lost like that. Idiot." Was that any worse than his own loss, though? 34.82 percent, those were his chances, and he couldn't even make that happen. His mouth is dry and there's a stupid lump in his throat and he sags, trying to think of the last time that tennis didn't make him want to cry. "And everyone else? Akaya?"

 

“Angry.” Sanada glares at nothing in particular, but certainly not at Yukimura. “Begging for rematches. He told me he’d be sending you an apology letter, but he has no way of locating us. No one does.”

 

"He doesn't need to apologize to me, anyway."

 

Yukimura flops back again, staring up at the ceiling. "Not even Marui's allowed up here, huh? I could eat his food." Marui's win might have been a fluke, but it's not so offensive that he's angry about it. It's mostly just tennis in general that makes him want to scream into a pillow, though it has a lot to do with Yagyuu, the idiot, or Niou, the dumbass jerk face… _ugh._ "I hope you've already burned every tape of my match that you could get your hands on." 

 

“The only thing I’ve had my hands on is you. But if you’re hungry, I do have some things. Some leftovers from Marui, and there’s a lot of fresh fish, if you want to wait for me to prepare it. And rice, of course,” he adds, hoping to somehow distract Yukimura from tennis. It will probably take a while, he knows, but he’s equal to the task.

 

"…I could eat a thing," Yukimura begrudgingly agrees, slowly inching his way to the edge of the bed. Whoo, he still feels like jello. That's interesting. "Have you been fishing without me watching? Rude." 

 

Sanada isn’t quite sure what to say to that, so he just shrugs. “You have the next two weeks to watch. I’ll catch you more fish than you can eat, if you want.” He kneels at the edge of the bed, slipping one slender foot into a slipper, then the other. “Raw, or cooked?”

 

"You can't deplete the ecosystem like that…but I'd still watch." Yukimura sighs and flops forward, giving into the urge to just throw his arms around Sanada's shoulders and bury his face into his neck. For better or for worse, that has something of a chain reaction--the scent of him, the warmth of him, every easy bit of strength that he can feel sets him off, and Yukimura clings tighter, the next breath he huffs out hot and wet. "I'm really sorry, Gen."

 

Sanada doesn’t know whether to cry in anger, or relief. Nothing in the world should be so important to Yukimura that it can make him cry, not after what he’s defeated--but the fact that he sounds so genuine, so humanly upset, is enough to melt Sanada down to his core.

 

He holds Yukimura tightly, as tight as he can without rupturing something, and rocks slowly back and forth. “You were magnificent,” he says, tears running down his own cheeks far more than they are down Yukimura’s. “No one could be prouder to have you as Captain, or friend.”

 

Yukimura shoves his face harder into Sanada's shoulder, pointedly refusing to look up when he knows if he sees Sanada crying, he's _really_ going to start crying, and it's bad enough that he can just _tell_. "Shut up," he whispers. "I've never been more stupid in my entire life, you _know that_. I _lied_ to you so I could play that stupid match and I couldn't even win." 

 

“It’s a force of nature, Seiichi.” Sanada nuzzles into Yukimura’s hair, knowing he’s getting it damp, not willing to stop for that reason. “You played a beautiful game when it was most difficult. There’s nothing to feel ashamed of.” Then he scowls. “If anything, it’s Atobe’s fault.”

 

"Atobe's?" That seems out of left field, and Yukimura sniffles, lifting his head up just enough to look up and over Sanada's shoulder. "If it was his fault, then I feel even worse."

 

“Don’t. He’s been binge-training the brat--er, Echizen,” Sanada amends, remembering how Echizen had come over to shake his hand, “on stamina. That’s why you weren’t wearing him down.”

 

Suddenly, it clicks. "I _saw_ that little brat wink at someone!" Yukimura furious recalls, wrenching away to flop back onto the edge of the bed again. "I saw him! I thought he was just being a little shit flirting with his girlfriend or something to show off, but I _bet_ that was to Atobe! Ugh, _gross_." 

 

“I could see it in his movements,” Sanada adds. “He also told me before that I had played the untested Echizen. I didn’t know what he meant, but...Seiichi, he didn’t have to spend the time since the Kantou relearning how to walk. Taking him to a record-breaking tiebreak when you were in that condition is nothing less than a miracle--and you _did_ break the record,” he adds. “That’ll be in the books forever, with your name on it.”

 

"With my _loss_ next to it," Yukimura wearily points out. "Which is less cool. Ugh, there was just so much about that match that I didn't realize until it was too late. I…" He trails off, exhaling a long, resigned sigh. "Echizen deserved that win." It makes something ache in his chest to say it, but he forces a smile when he glances up to catch Sanada's gaze. "But at least you beat Tezuka, right? Go ahead and brag, you know you want to."

 

Sanada allows one corner of his mouth to tilt up at the side, and no more. “It’s finished between me and him,” he says, and makes his most valiant attempt to date to really, truly let it go. It works, better than it ever has, and will stay gone until Tezuka does something else. “I have my satisfaction.” He pauses, then adds, gently, “The boy did play well. Phenomenally so.”

 

Yukimura sighs, long and hard, and tells himself to just _let it go_. It makes him angry and sick to think about it, but that's not going to change anything now. 

 

Easier said than done, of course, but he's going to try. 

 

"Right." Yukimura flops his arms back over Sanada's shoulders. "Pick me up and feed me. I nearly died, I think I remember that part." 

 

“You definitely did. And we’re not going to talk about that any more.” Sanada lifts Yukimura, princess-carrying him out of the bedroom and to the huge soft sofa in front of the (quiet for the summer) fireplace. “Fish, or Marui’s leftovers? He gave me dough to bake into bread, so that’s done and warm too.”

 

"It's weird when you nearly die," Yukimura insists instead of shutting up about it. He flops down onto the sofa, _infinitely_ pleased with the arrangement, and can't quite stop peering around at _things_. "I might have to complain once or twice about that experience. I want your fish for now, just crisp it up or something and I'll bite the head off like a real man." 

 

Sanada mutters something about Shinto complaint departments and lunatic captains while he cooks, taking each small fish and making certain it’s fried to Yukimura’s heinous and over-done standards. “You can look around when you’re finished eating,” he allows, and prepares a plate stacked high with the little fish, a hunk of fresh bread on the side that he’ll probably wind up eating himself.

 

"Mm, you made it all look _really_ nice here." Yukimura twists over onto his side, grabbing a fish off the plate before Sanada can even set it down and biting off the head just as threatened. If he's been out for two days, then that explains why he's ravenous. He'll never tell Sanada (he probably already knows, he knows _everything_ ), but even breakfast the day of the tournament itself was somewhat lacking. "No tennis court, though, huh."

 

Sanada’s eyes narrow, and he takes a fish himself, biting it neatly in half and swallowing each half in a matter of seconds. “You need a few days away from tennis. Once you’re completely well again, I’ll look into having a court built up here. Not before.”

 

Yukimura makes a face, and grabs two fish next time, because Sanada can't be trusted. "I'll be fine in a day. You brought all my meds and stuff, right? Also, please tell me my parents didn't flip out once they heard I was sick again, I didn't _want_ to have to lie to them, but…"

 

“They’re not angry with you.” Sanada notices the thievery, and switches to gnawing on the fresh bread instead. There are plenty more fish for later, and Yukimura needs to gorge himself. “Obviously concerned, but not even that surprised, to be honest. I think the doctors were less optimistic with them than they were with you when you first went in for the surgery.”

 

"Oh, good. I can feel less bad about being a liar, then, because everyone lies to my face, too." Another fish, head bitten off first, decisively. "Did Niou apologize yet?" 

 

“Face to the ground,” Sanada says tiredly. “Swearing he’s going to make it up to you and it’s going to be _creative_.” He pauses, then adds, “Echizen came over to shake your hand.”

 

Yukimura looks skeptical about Niou apologizing on the ground--Niou doesn't like that, gets weird about it, so it probably was weird to watch--but the whole Echizen thing makes him crack a smile. "Trying to make up for that Kantou oversight, I guess. He's cute, but has the misfortune of apparently dating Atobe. Hey, at least you know those rumors about him and Tezuka are unfounded now; your love can still be pure," he teases.

 

Sanada growls, taking another fish out of punishment and chewing only twice before swallowing it whole. “Don’t be disgusting. You’re the only pure love I need.” Although it is just as well that Tezuka isn’t dating Atobe. Those rumors were disturbing, to say the least. Heh. _Tezuka_.

 

" _You're_ the disgusting one. Look, I can see the 'heh. _Tezuka._ ' written all over your face," Yukimura laughs, snatching the whole plate away to have at the remainders of fish himself. 

 

“ _No_ , it’s _over_ , I’m not even thinking of him anymore! Ah, that was a good battle.” Sanada’s eyes are slightly misty, but unlike usual, he’s able to bring himself out of it--and before he gets fully hard, which is good. Instead, he slings an arm around Yukimura’s shoulder, nuzzling against his ear. “That’s some great bedhead.”

 

"Ahh, boo, I need to fix it," Yukimura laments, though he makes no attempt to do so and instead nestles his way into Sanada's side, butting his head gently back against the other boy's. "You can't expect me to be perfect after a kidnapping."

 

“But you are.” Sanada tilts his head up for a kiss, soft and sweet despite the fried-fish smell, which is on both of them anyway. “I might have to kidnap you more often. What do you want to do first?”

 

"You could kidnap me forever if there was also tennis." Maybe after a few hours, that itch to run out and grab his racquet and _play_ will die down, but that's only a maybe, and Yukimura doesn't think that counts for much. He rubs his cheek against Sanada's shoulder, contemplative. "Dunno. You're my captor, you're supposed to have ideas." 

 

“I do have ideas.” Sanada squeezes Yukimura’s shoulders gently, just enough to give him the sense that he’s here, he’s safe. “If you want to go outside, there’s a surprise around the side, or we could swim in the pool. If you want to stay inside, there’s a surprise in the bedroom. I don’t think you noticed it yet.”

 

Yukimura blinks, huffs, and reaches up to give Sanada's face a squish between both of his hands. "You're going to spoil me too much," he frankly says, "and that's saying something, because I'm already awful. Which reminds me, kidnapper and savior, did you think to bring my glasses? I know you think contacts are weird so I'm not even gonna go there." And it's not like anyone else (apparently) is going to see him when he's on a mountain with Sanada.

 

Sanada doesn’t even bother to tell him they’re in the bedroom, next to the bed--if Yukimura could have seen that, he’d have already been wearing them. It’s the matter of a couple seconds to go retrieve them, and he gently sets them on Yukimura’s ears. “I know the cabin isn’t much,” he says, before Yukimura can get his first good look. “I’ll keep making improvements.”

 

Ahh, yes, clarity, and thankfully so, because it's a lot prettier when he doesn't have a blur filter naturally applied. "You hush, it's literally perfect," Yukimura sighs, swinging his feet to the floor and briefly testing his weight on one foot. Not as bad as earlier. Maybe it was mostly a food thing. "When did you have the time to even build all of this? So secretive, Gen."

 

“Mornings, mostly.” Sanada stretches out, far more relaxed than he’s been now that he doesn’t have to worry about whether Yukimura will wake up or not. Yukimura can move, he looks rested, and he’s alive, so that’s all of his worries taken care of. “Oh, and the doctor said that he’s putting you on a gentler course of medicine for a month. He thinks your body needs a rest. A little less effective, but they shouldn’t interfere with your digestive system and, uh, other systems as much.”

 

"You're at _practice_ in the mornings," Yukimura mutters underneath his breath, still attempting to piece together that timeline. He's just fairly certain that Sanada is magic now, and can teleport or something similar. He reaches out, grasping the arm of the sofa to haul himself upright. Yes, good. Not swaying all that much, and he does like that. "'Other systems', huh? Good, maybe I'll be able to keep up with your hormones again." 

 

“I haven’t been working on it for the last three weeks,” Sanada grumbles. “Obviously. It was just...something to keep my mind off of things when you were in the hospital. I had no idea it would be finished so soon.” It had nothing to do with how he’d heard that Tezuka, apparently, had built a cabin when he was eleven, damn him. “How is it so far? You ate more than before. Keeping it down?”

 

"Mmn. Nothing too bad so far. Hey, does this mean that if I disappear overseas to go pro, you'll build another cabin to keep yourself preoccupied while I'm busy?" Yukimura teases over his shoulder, drifting off to wander through the cabin now that he can actually see. It's not huge, but who would want it to be? Sanada built it, and it's theirs, and that's the part Yukimura is concerned about (also, it's perfect besides). "Because we could have a few hiding places like this all over Japan, I think."

 

“That’s the plan,” Sanada says, without a hint of humor. “You explore for a minute, I’m going to wash up.” There aren’t many dishes, not when they’d been eating off of the same plate, but there are a couple of larger fish to scale and gut.

 

Yukimura is _pretty_ interested in having half a dozen of these little miniature mansions everywhere, especially when Sanada's the one building them. 

 

Wandering back into the bedroom is his first choice, because the offer of surprises is something that he's not going to ignore. _Where_ is the question, though Yukimura pauses in that endeavor for a moment to flop onto the edge of the bed, resting his legs that still feel something like goo (better to do it now, than when Sanada is looking). 

 

Coincidentally, that places him directly facing what appears to be more furniture that Sanada made himself--a desk this time, and Yukimura's up again the second he sees that sketchbook placed on it. Opening every drawer just further proves that he has the literal best boyfriend in the existence of the world, down to the fact that Sanada pays attention to the brand of paint that he'd always use when he actually used to have the _time_ to draw. 

 

Maybe Sanada will still accidentally drink his paint water like an idiot.

 

Sanada hears drawers opening, and smiles to himself even as his pulse speeds up. He’s been watching Yukimura’s hands carefully for the last three weeks, but while they’re clearly tired from tennis, there’s none of the trembling, none of the uncontrollable shaking there had been before, before the surgery. He’d enlisted help, asking Yukimura’s sister to steal some of his paint, and had gone to the store he remembered being dragged to and demanded whatever a “full set” was for someone who liked to paint with the stuff. 

 

 _Is it right?_ He wants to ask, but bites his tongue. Yukimura isn’t shy about letting him know when he’s done something wrong.

 

A few seconds pass before Yukimura trots out of the bedroom, and lands with a solid _thump_ against Sanada's back, his face pressed into the back of his neck and his arms tight around his waist. "If you don't stop being so perfect, I'm going to think that you're animatronic," he says, voice muffled against Sanada's skin. 

 

Sanada starts to laugh, but it catches in his throat, tears pricking hot at his eyes. It’s been a long time since Yukimura has hugged him like this, and Sanada chokes down a sob of relief, of delight, and braces himself against the countertops. “If you’re happy,” he says, voice shaking, and can’t go on.

 

"Gross, don't cry, you're going to make me cry, I've warned you like five times now!" Yukimura squeezes tighter, and nuzzles his face down into Sanada's skin, huffing out a breath. "Look, now you have to be my model the whole time we're here. Don't you see what you've done? I'm so out of practice and it's going to be awful." 

 

“You might not want to draw the whole time,” Sanada says, getting himself under control again. It’s difficult, when he’s been forcing himself to be strong for Yukimura this whole time, and suddenly Yukimura seems like his former self, strong and fearless and stunning, shining like any star he’s ever seen. “You haven’t seen the outside yet. But I’ll model for you, as long as you don’t do that thing with the oil again.”

 

"Maybe I'll draw outside. And if I want to oil you again, I'll oil you again, your muscles looked _so_ good in the right light--ahh, imagine them in natural sunlight like that, you'll be even more handsome--"

 

“You always get bored before I can get it all off!” Sanada argues, and steers him towards the back door, out into the sunlight. “It takes _hours_ to get it all off!”

 

"What if I like you oily like that?" Yukimura demands, clinging to Sanada's arm and letting himself be steered along. "We've got nothing but time, you can stand being oiled for longer!"

 

“It’s _weird!_ And you never like it as much as you think you do, so I’m just sitting in an oily bathtub using up all my soap for hours!”

 

"You listen here, Genichirou--if I need you oiled for a painting, _you'll be oiled_ , and I'll like it very, very much and probably want to get oily with you so you need to learn to appreciate it more." 

 

This is not an argument Sanada is going to win with words (much like every other argument they’ve ever had), so instead, he simply steers Yukimura around the corner and to the small, barely-started garden, arranged in neat trellised rows.

 

Yukimura, already poised to come up with another oil-rebuttal, soon shuts his mouth. "Oh. Okay, I might be outside, too." He's already off of Sanada's arm, slippers kicked off because they're just going to get dirty at this rate, anyway, and then he's _in_ the garden, touching and poking and rearranging. "There is _no way_ you just did all of this in the mornings! Can you teleport now? Is that another samurai thing?" 

 

Sanada raises an eyebrow. “You can believe that I built an entire cabin, but not that I planted four little rows of seeds? If they’re the wrong ones, I can pull them up and put new ones in, I think.”

 

"Listen, I love you, but you're not the greenest thumb out there. This was _effort_ for you." Yukimura hops over and grabs his face and kisses him hard. "And it's _so_ cute and perfect and you aren't pulling up any of our children or I'll hit you." 

 

“Any of our—” 

 

Anything Sanada might have wanted to say dies with Yukimura’s kiss, and it’s an effort not to just sink down to the ground right there. This isn’t like the kisses from earlier, not after a second. Sanada’s hands come up to Yukimura’s hips, and he pulls him close, deepening the kiss and feeling his skin grow tight, his pulse speed up.

 

A long exhale through the nose, and Sanada finally manages to pull away, resting his forehead against Yukimura’s, breathing harder than he’d expected to after just one kiss. “You...ah. You like it, then.” He tries to keep his voice normal, when all he wants to do is throw them both down in the dirt and….well.

 

"Mmhmm." Yeah, that feels good. His pulse is an eagerly thumping thing in his veins, and Yukimura slings his arms properly around Sanada's neck, holding tight. "If you're going to throw me on the ground, that's good, but avoid our children." _This_ feels a lot better and a lot more natural than it did that one stupid night in his bedroom when he was just lying to Sanada's face and making up excuses. _This_ makes him want to climb Sanada like a tree, and he contemplates the logistics of that.

 

Sanada draws in a deep breath, trying to remember his meditation techniques when his blood is pulsing hard and fast, and Yukimura is in his arms, and everything smells right and feels like it was always supposed to. “I think,” he says, trying to remember that he _does_ know how to think, “I have everything, uh, _ready_ inside, if you want to...move.” The thought of using those things he’d acquired (mostly from Niou) makes him fairly convinced he’s going to pass out...until he remembers that it’s Yukimura, that it’s perfect, and they’ve wanted this for time out of mind, it feels.

 

"Like, right now," Yukimura readily agrees, giving Sanada's chest a little shove. There's really no time to waste when his body is cooperating and _Sanada_ is cooperating and climbing him like a tree is inevitable. "I'm going to eat you alive if you don't drag me back inside like I'm a stolen samurai bride."

 

“A samurai would never steal a bride,” Sanada complains, but it’s a good enough excuse to get Yukimura in his arms, and he’ll take it. This is a hell of a lot better than the last time he’d held him, passed out and delirious with pain, and the late morning sunshine is strong and nourishing up this high.

 

Maybe he can blame the altitude for how quickly his breath comes when he lays Yukimura down on the bed. Probably not, though. “I need to kiss you,” he says, a hint of an apology in his voice when he climbs onto the bed, reaching for Yukimura as if they haven’t been this close in years, maybe ever.

 

"You don't have to _say that_ , Gen," Yukimura murmurs, and he shoves his glasses up and off before reaching for the other boy, eager to tug him down and have him close. "Just do it." 

 

Sanada might want to go on and on about how much better _he_ looks, but personally, Yukimura thinks Sanada is the one that's already benefitted more. Crying at the drop of a hat aside--Sanada's just like that, anyway--the tension is gone from his face and shoulders, the lines in his face softened, and…well, it's a preference, but he's always so much more handsome without that stupid hat. 

 

Yukimura, Sanada notes with something like heartbreaking relief, tastes like he used to. Well, he tastes like fish more than anything, but underneath that there’s something strong, something fragrant and unmistakable as it is unnameable, and it twists Sanada’s chest with every brush of their lips. He stretches out, hands running up the sides of Yukimura’s body, up his back gently, avoiding the forming scar, and pressing into his shoulders, where he carries his tension.

 

There’s _not_ as much as there has been this last year, and Sanada will take that as a win any day. “You’re perfect," he says, voice wet and overwhelmed. “And I’m here with you.” There’s no luckier man in the world, he knows.

 

 _You're being so, so dumb_ is on the tip of Yukimura's tongue, but he silences himself with a huff, lurching up to kiss Sanada again, more insistently when he starts thinking about wanting to cry again. Even if he couldn't hear it, he swears he can sense it before the waterworks start. "At least say that right," he quietly scolds. "'You're perfect, and you're mine.' That's better." 

 

Getting all four limbs around Sanada's body is good, and all the better to drag him down for another, needy kiss. Sanada is always so _warm_ , and he swears he's going to melt before they even get anywhere. That feels pretty normal, like it used to be, and that, more than anything, makes Yukimura sag with relief. 

 

“This is how it was always supposed to be.” 

 

Sanada says it, and knows it, feels it in his heart. Just to make sure Yukimura does too, he grabs his hand, bringing it to his own bare chest, swallowing hard when he looks down into Yukimura’s eyes. “Feel it, Seiichi?”

 

He’ll probably start crying again at any second, and they both know it. At least it’s not going to stop him from being good, being what Yukimura needs, from being what they both need him to be. Just the thought that they’re in bed together, and that there’s nothing and no one around that can stop them, is enough to make Sanada’s heart thud against his ribs, against Yukimura’s hand.

 

Yukimura swallows hard, curling his fingers against Sanada's chest as he nods. "Yeah." 

 

He'd like to make a quip about _all I'm feeling is muscles, idiot_ , but he can't even tease Sanada right now, not when his own heart is thudding out through his chest and he's all sorts of nervous-excited and really, _really_ just needs to keep kissing Sanada until he can draw in a full breath again without it catching all up in his throat like that. And so--"If you don't kiss me again," he warns, "I'm going to be upset." 

 

It’s a good thing, then, that kissing Yukimura is all Sanada wants to do.

 

Each kiss is long and sweet, delving deep with his tongue, pulling back just in case he triggers a gag reflex the way he had one particularly bad day in the hospital. Part of him wants to let his hands wander, but more of him just wants to _kiss_ , and he takes Yukimura’s face in his hands, pulling back every so often just to look at him, wonder in his eyes. 

 

He doesn’t need to say anything. If Yukimura doesn’t know by now, nothing he says is good enough, anyway.

 

Being looked at like that by someone like _Sanada_ should make everyone else in the world feel intensely, horribly jealous, and Yukimura hopes they all know what they're missing. 

 

Getting his arms tight around Sanada again is the best plan he's had in awhile, especially when he's being kissed like that and left out of breath courtesy of it. His nails rake dully against Sanada's spine, fingers spreading over the smooth, hard lines of muscle, and it feels a little too good to wriggle and get Sanada between his thighs. It's been awhile since anything felt this good and not _awkward_ , and god, he wants to savor that. 

 

No monitors, no stupid IV lines, no little sisters banging on his bedroom door, no texts from Yanagi or the rest of the team-- _yes, perfect_. "This is the best idea you've ever had." Yukimura really does mean that.

 

Sanada smiles, brushing the hair back from Yukimura’s forehead, then kissing it. He looks around the room, silent except for faint birdsong, and admits, “It’s pretty good, isn’t it? I just wanted to be away from anything and everything when we finally…” 

 

He takes a deep breath, and summons his courage. After all, he’s laying between Yukimura’s thighs, and is pretty content to be there. “When we make love.” God, he’s going to cry again.

 

"If you just go ahead and keep crying a steady stream of tears, it will be much easier on you," is Yukimura's gentle tease. He lurches up, kissing Sanada firmly on the lips. "You're perfect," he says easily. "And you've really done everything in the world to make me happy, and it's working, trust me. So just relax a little bit, okay? We're here now." 

 

“I am relaxed.” For some reason, it’s true, and Sanada bends his neck to kiss Yukimura again, tasting and teasing him with his tongue and his lips. “More than...mm, more than in a long time.”

 

It’s not exactly a surprise, or a mystery. It’s just that Yukimura is happy, and there’s nothing that could be more of a balm to his nerves than that. His hands are strong and broad, and no matter how he caresses Yukimura’s arms, shoulders, sides, he keeps returning to his face, kissing, pulling away to just _stare_ for a minute, memorizing before kissing him again. “You won’t be angry if it isn’t perfect? I don’t…” But Yukimura knows, of course.

 

"You're being dumb." _Now_ he can say it, and gently catches Sanada's lower lip with his teeth for good measure. "One, how would I know; two, it's you, so it's impossible for it not to be perfect." Yukimura is pretty sure about that second part, at least, but he just _has_ to ask now: "How much research _have_ you been doing?" His own 'research' consists of Niou, which is a pretty good source, but the idea of Sanada doing anything remotely similar is…ugh, really, really cute. _Here lies Yukimura Seiichi, death by samurai moe._

 

Sanada’s cheeks darken, and he tries and fails to remember that it’s a _good_ thing, that that embarrassing research is going to help them make it good, that no one is going to make fun of him _too_ badly. “Some,” he admits. “I mean, no firsthand sources or anything, but…” 

 

He clears his throat. “Old books. And, uh, Renji helped me use the computer to go on the internet.”

 

Yukimura tries and fails not to start giggling. Shit, shit, he's the worst, but Sanada is just _so_ cute. "Well, our combined knowledge should get us somewhere, then," he teases, reaching around to yank the sash of his yukata free. "Why didn't you just _ask_ Renji, though? I mean, not about the weird stuff he's into, but…"

 

Sanada gives him a look. “Do _you_ want to hear his instructions? It would _way_ too weird.” He hesitates for a second, then admits, “I also...uh…” His blush intensifies. “When I think about it too much I get all….it was better to do it privately.”

 

"Eh…at least Niou's informative _and_ fun to listen to," Yukimura relents, shrugging down his yukata from his shoulders and flopping back with a sigh. " _Everything_ makes you hard, though, so that part," he says, boldly reaching forward to grab at the waistband of Sanada's shorts, "isn't a surprise." 

 

Automatically, Sanada’s hand comes down to stop him, muttering, “Seiichi, no, we can’t—”

 

Before he remembers.

 

Slowly, he releases that hand, and even presses himself closer, sucking in a breath as he feels Yukimura’s hand against the stiff, aching length of himself through his shorts. “Sorry. I guess...we can.” 

 

And because they can, he reaches down and drags a hand up one pale thigh, breath hitching when he feels the warmth of Yukimura against his hand, cupping him and trying not to let his heart thud out of his chest as his cock twitches.

 

 _Damn right we can, you carried me up a mountain for this_. 

 

Yukimura can easily count the numbers of times that he's actually been bold enough to put his hand _this_ close, but that was over a year ago, and maybe a few pathetically desperate times in the hospital, but this is one hell of a lot better. Sanada's encouraging him this time, too, not hissing at him to _quit it_ , and so his fingers eagerly curl around the outline of Sanada's cock, breath hitching when he can feel how hot and hard he is even through fabric. 

 

His own body is cooperating, too, and that's a fucking relief, and-- _almost_ over-stimulating, when was the last time he even jerked off. _A really long time ago_ his body cheerfully reminds him, his cock suddenly that much harder when Sanada's hand is on him, and ah, that's a rush of breath pulled from his lungs. Whoo, this is going to be an experience. 

 

Sanada feels almost reverent toward everything he’s cupping in his hand, and he rubs the pad of his thumb over the head, trying to keep his breath even when all he wants to do is…

 

Right, Yukimura’s hand is moving through the fabric, and he’s going to have to warn him.

 

“Uh, Seiichi, it’s—” He gulps, eyes crossing a little at the press of that hand curling around him. “It’s not gonna be--long. B-but I can keep going after, so maybe I should just--get it over with—”

 

Okay, it's not _almost_ over-stimulating. It's way too overstimulating, definitely, and Sanada's fingers _shouldn't_ be allowed to feel that good, not when they're all calloused and warm and really, really good and--

 

Yukimura swallows down a ragged, broken little whimper--mostly. Not so well at all, actually, not when he can't _help_ but wriggle up into Sanada's hand and _easily_ come all over it with just another upward lurch. "You _better_ be able to keep going after," he pants out, and fumbles at Sanada's shorts, yanks them down enough to actually get his hand on his cock. "You're _so_ hard, Gen--"

 

Sanada has just about enough presence of mind to realize that Yukimura just _came_ on his _hand_ , that he’s sort of _holding_ Yukimura’s come, sticky and hot and—

 

It’s a good think they’re in the mountains smack dab in the center of a thousand private acres. Sanada isn’t quiet when he comes, letting out a groan that shakes the windows as he lurches against Yukimura’s touch. “Ah—” He’s on the verge of apologizing, before remembering that Yukimura did too, and Yukimura cannot be allowed to think that he’d done anything wrong.

 

Much better is kicking off his shorts, then realizing when he looks down. “Uh…” He’s never quite thought of that before. There’s very little in his hand--is that how much men are supposed to do it? “Sorry mine’s so, uh, messy…”

 

Yukimura promptly shuts him up by yanking him down and kissing him again, hot and messy and _demanding_. "You can be as messy as you damn well please," he mutters, flopping back, dragging Sanada with him, his body still feeling twitchy and shivery all over. That wasn't even that _great_ of an orgasm, but shit, that's the first orgasm he's had in… 

 

"Months," Yukimura blissfully sighs out loud, and kisses Sanada again for good measure. "First time in months. Maybe a year. Don't remember. Can we keep a running tally, I wanna know how many times you make me come." 

 

Sanada whimpers. “If you talk like that,” he says gruffly, “it’s gonna be pretty rapid-fire.” Sure enough, he hasn’t even gone fully soft yet, his cock twitching hard at that breathy suggestion. There are some perks to being fifteen, he supposes, and some rewards for the punishment from the gods of being hard nearly all the time.

 

Then he realizes that they’re together, _naked_ , and _lying on top of each other_ , and he really does almost come again. Experimentally, he scoots up on his knees, managing to lay his cock against Yukimura’s own, sucking in a breath at just that amount of heat, friction, slippery perfection. “We probably should have talked first about what we were going to do,” he realizes. It isn’t like he doesn’t want to do everything, but what should be first?

 

"Don't care," is Yukimura's somewhat squeaked out response when Sanada slides up against him like that, and his nails end up raking up Sanada's spine in the process. Definitely overstimulated again--yes, _already_ \--and his thighs shake a bit before he summons the strength to press them tight to Sanada's waist. "Really don't…ahh…Genichirou, you are _not_ fair." 

 

“Let me make love to you.” The words just come out, and Sanada doesn’t regret them for a second. He knows he’s antiquated, stodgy, an old man before his time, but all he can think is how good they are together, how well they fit together, and his hands squeeze Yukimura’s inner thighs, trailing up higher, then down to his knees, then up again. “I want to be inside you, Seiichi, please—”

 

Here's the thing about being on a hair-trigger--it just doesn't stop. Sanada's hands and his words and the _idea of it_ makes Yukimura's nerves prick and twitch anew and he has to breathe long and deep before he can even _think_ that maybe he's not going to come _just yet_. "Yes, yes, yes-- _god_ , do you know how many times I've thought about that?" Sanada probably doesn't, but rest assured, it's a lot. 

 

“Not as many as I have.” He’s also thought about it every other way it could possibly be as well--most of the times he wakes from an embarrassing dream it’s to the memory of hot, quick breaths and teasing words from behind him--but this is his most pervasive fantasy, down to the clear sunlight spilling in through the window to glint off of Yukimura’s hair. “You have to _swear_ you’ll tell me how to do it right,” he mutters, and opens the drawer next to the bed, pulling out everything the internet website said that he would need--wet wipes, condoms, rubber gloves, and lubricant. “Don’t spare my feelings.”

 

"I'll kick you in the face, no worries." Yukimura spares a sideways glance into the drawer, and that calms down that hair trigger a bit as he makes a face. "Don't make this weird, rubber gloves freak me out. Listen, do you _know_ how much Niou has told me? He's good for something, and I guarantee he has a lot more fun than anyone writing some stuffy article online would." 

 

Oh, no, he doesn’t like the gloves. Sanada frowns. “No, there’s a checklist. If I don’t properly lubricate you, you could get hemorrhoids or anal fissures. I’m not willing to take that chance.”

 

"Genichirou," Yukimura calmly says, reaching out to place a hand on the other boy's chest, "you're making it so weird. I mean, if you _really_ need to wear gloves to put your fingers in me, go for it, but that sounds--and would probably feel-- _really_ hospital-y and I am _so_ not into that." 

 

“I…” Sanada puts the gloves back in the drawer, trying not to be irritated either at Yukimura, the online site, or himself. “I just don’t want to hurt you. Do you...have you…” _Come on, Genichirou, if you can do it, you can say it!_ “Have you done it to yourself before?”

 

"Well, _awhile_ ago," Yukimura huffs, leaning back onto his hands. "You're not going to hurt me, you know. Niou says it's pretty easy once you get used to it, anyway." 

 

Well, that clinches it. “If Niou can do it, we can do it,” Sanada says, and believes himself. He glares dubiously at the bottle of lubricant. “Do we really need any of this stuff, or is it all just a lie that article made up?”

 

"No, we definitely need a lot of that," Yukimura hurriedly says, snatching the lube away before Sanada can get rid of it. "You _really_ should have asked Renji more about this before, you know he's a freaky expert about it!" 

 

“I _tried_.” At least this conversation is doing what coming didn’t, and is helping him breathe easier without wanting to grind on everything at all times. “But--I got really--I had to ask him to leave after a minute,” he admits. “Not that I want him or anything! Just, the idea of doing it with you...it was really strong.”

 

"Uh huh. Give me your hand," Yukimura orders, a little snap of his fingers following. "Fortunately for the both of us, _I_ had a lot of conversations with Niou about sex because there was nothing better to do with my time for several months." His expression shifts wry. "Originally, the first thing I had wanted to do after I got out was do it with you."

 

Sanada produces his hand, still sticky with drying fluids, and grimaces. “It wasn’t exactly good timing,” he admits, “you getting out right before Nationals. I originally wanted to take you up here right after you got out, but...we’re here now. What are you going to…”

 

"What do you _think_ I'm going to do? You don't need a glove because I'm _not_ gross, and let's be real, we've known each other since we were four," Yukimura points out on a laugh, and flips open the top of the bottle. That's a nice, generous amount that spills over Sanada's fingers, and probably a good start. Niou was pretty firm about _lots and lots of lube, don't you fucking skimp._ "Do I need to drag those fingers of yours where they need to go, or did your article online tell you a~ll about that?" 

 

Sanada flushes dark, and mumbles, “Yeah, I know where it goes.” 

 

Despite everything he’s read, there’s definitely a hesitation, and he has to ask--no, he can’t--no, he has to, even with his fingers hovering awkwardly in the air first. “Do you need to use the toilet first? I mean, if we start and then...I mean, it’s better if you do it now, I think.” He’s going to die of embarrassment.

 

Yukimura's stare is deadpan. "Remember when I threatened to kick you in the face? I'm literally going to do it in about five seconds if you don't _put them in me._ " Maybe Niou's advice of just squirting the whole thing up there himself is a better plan of action. 

 

Sanada quells the urge to ask again. That would just sound like he doesn’t trust Yukimura, and he _can’t_ have that, he just can’t.

 

It’s that, more than the threat of being kicked in the face, that compels him to move, fingers sliding down until they’re touching Yukimura’s balls, then down further. He sucks in a breath, and tries to remember what had felt good on himself when he was practicing, making sure he wouldn’t do anything bad to Yukimura. One first, and he rubs it around the hole first before working it gently inside.

 

Yukimura’s tighter than he is, and Sanada tries not to think about why that could be. Instead, he presses kisses to one smooth shoulder, whispering, “Relax, please?”

 

Ah, well. Yukimura seems to _recall_ this being a bit easier some time ago, but it's not like he tried all that hard and he wasn't the biggest fan, so there's _that_ all coming back to him…

 

"I'm fine." Deep breaths. That'll do it. He flops back, drawing in another, slow breath through his nose, kneading one hand into the mattress and firmly telling himself not to be a baby about it when it just feels a little weird right now. It doesn't _hurt,_ at least. "Gen, you look like you're going to cry again, please don't," he crossly adds, shifting to get more comfortable. "Not right _now_." 

 

That startles Sanada, and he actually laughs, stilling his finger when it’s in to just the first knuckle. “I, ah...I was trying not to come,” he admits, sitting back so he can squeeze the base of his own throbbing cock, trying to force it back a little. “If you don’t like it, we can do it the other way. I don’t mind, and it might be easier.” Sanada is actually a little proud of the fact that he can say that and not want to die. He really is loosening up, he thinks.

 

"Said as if I'm not gonna put it in you later either way," Yukimura huffs, and okay, the little shiver that rakes down his spine when he sees how hard Sanada is _definitely_ helps. Yeah, _that_ is what he wants in him, definitely. "No, we're doing it this way first," he mutters. "Just--ugh, I'm not going to break, really put them in already, I'm pretty sure your dick's going to feel a lot better." 

 

“But it’s bigger,” Sanada protests, though not very hard. He manages, finally, to get his finger the rest of the way inside, hoping this feels better for Yukimura than it looks like it feels. “Seiichi, it’s fine if you don’t like it, I read that not all men—”

 

"Shut _up_ , Gen," Yukimura groans, and he's got the presence of mind to at least kick at Sanada's hip. His body decides to give one last, half-hearted shiver of protest before he just sags down into the bed. It's not perfect, but it'll do. "It's _good_ when it's in there deeper, and the longer you draw it out and don't just _do it_ \-- _that's_ when I don't like it."

 

In answer, Sanada draws back his hand and starts working in a second slippery finger, taking Yukimura’s crude order and shoving in quickly, stroking and stretching once it’s all the way in. “I was just waiting for you to relax,” he mutters, and squeezes his own cock harder, trying to bodily force himself to wait, all the more conscious that it’s really not working, not when Yukimura is squirming and slick and hot around his fingers and he can’t stop thinking about what he’d be like around his cock. “Is that what you mean by just doing it? You said you’d tell me,” he points out, “not that you’d kick me.”

 

"Forgot a little, sorry." _That's_ faster, but closer to what Yukimura wants, if he's going to judge by the way his cock jumps and the way his breathing hitches raggedly. It feels a _lot_ better now that there's more in there, and an experimental wriggle down against Sanada's hand makes his eyes flutter and his legs splay. Scratch that. It's close to perfect, especially when Sanada's hand moves a little and his fingers press deeper still. 

 

"If you need to jerk off while you're fingering me--" Saying that makes Yukimura's throat lock up a bit, and yeah, he's hard enough again that it's distractingly good. "J-just--make sure you can get it up again soon, or I'm gonna be mad." 

 

Sanada nearly protests that he can rarely get it up again _that_ fast, but with Yukimura around his fingers, squirming and breathless, he doesn’t doubt that he could. 

 

Still, it wouldn’t last long, and there wouldn’t be much _substance_ to it. He squeezes harder than he usually has to, actually dropping his hand down and squeezing lower, and finally manages to get himself under control. To distract himself, he pants, “You know….you know how they tell you to...to think of something unattractive when you’re close, so you don’t do it too fast?” 

 

He laughs, and slides a third finger in, looking at Yukimura’s face only long enough to make sure he’s not in too much pain, any longer and he’d be finished. “Never worked for me once.”

 

 _That_ feels good.

 

Sanada has always had nice fingers (Yukimura knows, he's made his poor boyfriend sit there for hours and hold his hands out so he could just draw them over and over and over), but when they're in him like this, he can feel exactly how long they are, how they can curl inside of him like that and how they _really_ stuff him full. 

 

Apparently, that thought triggers something good in his brain, and like flipping a switch, his body seizes up in one long, ragged shudder, his toes curling when _something_ like an orgasm twitches down his spine. None of the mess this time, that's good, if not _weird_ , and he's still hard and dripping over his stomach as much as he is panting and grabbing at Sanada's shoulders and trying to drag him in closer. "In me," Yukimura hears himself mindlessly insist. "Sooner, rather than later--Gen, _please_ \--"

 

The article had talked about a lot of stretching--like, _hours_ \--but Sanada is pretty sure that Yukimura knows what he’s talking about, and this has to be a lot better than having needles and tubes stuffed into his body anyway. Besides, he’s taking three, and if he wants more, well, Sanada isn’t about to say no.

 

Not when he can already feel the sweet clench of Yukimura around him, the _squeeze_ of it, the wet heat that he can’t even imagine being around his cock or he’ll go off like a firework again. 

 

He nods, breathless, and grabs a condom. His fingers are too slippery to open it when he slides them out of Yukimura, and that leads to some creative, frustrated cursing before he grabs a second one with trembling fingers, tearing it open with his teeth. “Stupid thing,” he mutters, dropping it, picking it up again, and trying to put it on the wrong way. “I swear I practiced, it just doesn’t look like it.”

 

"Forget about it." Niou had tried to gross him out on at least twenty million different occasions, but that's pretty hard to do when he's been in a hospital for eight months. "When are we _ever_ going to be with anyone else?" Yukimura presses, lurching up to grab at Sanada's wrist and still his shaking hands. It probably doesn't do much, because his own are still a bit twitchy, and just touching Sanada again kind of sets another fire off down his spine. Yeah, that's weird. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "It really doesn't matter, and I don't want our first time with plastic…rubber…whatever those things are made out of, ugh, slimy, to be in the way." 

 

Sanada stares down at him for a long moment, utterly transfixed by everything that is Yukimura. He swallows hard, then tosses the flimsy piece of plastic over his shoulder, hearing it hit the wall with a sad wet noise. “You were joking,” he says, remembering to grab more of the lube and rub it all over his cock. He positions himself, the head throbbing when he presses right up against Yukimura’s hole, and he looks up to meet Yukimura’s eyes. “When you said that about being my bride. But I will be your husband.” 

 

And because he’ll die if he doesn’t, he pushes in, goes to heaven, and tries not to cry.

 

There will be plenty of time for telling Sanada that he wasn't _explicitly_ joking, that he'd happily be his bride (more or less), but right now--

 

Ah. Yeah. That's more than fingers, very much more than fingers.

 

"Slow, slow, slow--" is Yukimura's little breathless hiss of protest for a moment, digging his nails hard into one broad shoulder when Sanada pushes in and god, that's a _lot_. His body decides to protest far more firmly than he verbally is for a moment, and that's less good. All the breath feels like it's been sucked from his lungs, and it's _not_ cute to hiss and whimper and claw at Sanada's back like that, he thinks. 

 

Deeeep breaths. He's got this. 

 

He flops back, his hands still the source of his tension, digging little half-moons into Sanada's spine. His legs, too, are kind of tense shaky messes, but that's going away, slowly but surely. "My husband," he pants out, flushed and feeling sweat trickle straight down his spine from how much _effort_ this takes, " _definitely_ feels bigger inside."

 

Sanada is _trying_ to go slow--it’s important, because this is Yukimura actually asking instead of hitting, and that generally means it’s important--but nothing had mentioned the way this feels.

 

Every article he’d managed to find on the internet had talked about how it felt for the man receiving, how it had been a stretch, a slow cramping stuffing full, comparing it to decidedly less arousing bodily functions--but nothing had prepared him for the way Yukimura feels inside. Tight heat, clamping down harder than his own hand ever has at the first ring, tighter still at the second, and then nothing but sweet wet heat encircling him, molten velvet squeezing, welcoming him with every silken caress.

 

“Sorry,” Sanada breathes, panting hard as he tries to hold still, but none of his usual tricks--breathing, meditating, giving mental pep talks--are doing _anything_ , and his hips keep grinding in tight, urgent circles. He manages at least to not slam in to the root, but it’s a hundred times harder than he’d thought it would be, and his hairline breaks out in sweat. “Sorry, I’m--I can’t stop—”

 

"That's…it's okay. It's fine, I--" If he says it enough times, it'll become true. Manifest destiny and all that, and Yukimura's not wrong. The more he relaxes, the less it feels like he's being split open, the more that stretch starts feeling like a pleasant-enough ache, and he groans, giving up and just throwing his thighs tight around Sanada's waist, dragging him in. "J-just--just like that, it's good." 

 

Wriggling down against Sanada's cock himself helps, actually, and so  Yukimura does it again, biting his lower lip to keep back a noise that's a little too squeaky for his liking. That's good so long as it's not _too fast_ , and everything kind of feels too fast right now. He blows a sweat-soaked strand of hair out of his face, and grabs at Sanada's face, dragging him down. "Kiss me," he insists, _needing_ that extra lifeline when everything else is just way too overwhelming. 

 

That’s an order Sanada can’t help but obey, even when it seems like the rest of his mind is in his cock. His mouth almost crashes into Yukimura’s, and he tastes salt--shit, he’s crying again and hadn’t even noticed, doesn’t even know _why_ this time. 

 

“Please,” he begs, lips squashed against Yukimura’s, and he’s not even sure what he’s begging for. Nothing could have prepared him for this; the only thing his cock has ever been in is his own hand, and that’s so far from this it’s comparing a candle to the noon sun. “I’m going to _die_.”

 

His hips are moving again, sliding him farther, farther in, encouraged by the legs around his waist, and surely Yukimura can’t hate it _too_ much if he’s yanking at him like that. The only saving grace Sanada has at the moment is the fact that he’s passed some sort of threshold, and it actually feels _too_ good to come.

 

 _Yukimura's_ saving grace is the fact that when Sanada's in him _all the way_ , their skin pressed flush and slick when it slaps together…his mind just kind of short circuits, and it _does_ start feeling really good. 

 

Every lurch of their bodies makes him twitch down to his toes, and his hands scrabble at Sanada's back, dragging down his spine and digging in where he can. "Me, too," he manages, high and breathy and _needy_ when he catches Sanada's mouth in another, wet kiss, not sure if he's tasting tears or sweat but it's all good. Arching his back makes his cock slide against Sanada's stomach, and he shudders, his eyes glazing for a moment. It _definitely_ feels different to be hard when Sanada's in him this _deep_. 

 

"Just--whenever you want, it's _fine_ \--" It would have been fine ages ago, Yukimura doesn't _care_. He doesn't care about much of anything anymore, because nothing has felt _this_ good in a long, long time, when Sanada's grabbing him and holding him and _in_ him and he can't do anything but hold on.

 

“Do you—”

 

Sanada’s breath shorts out, and his spine arches, making him hunch over Yukimura and thrust hard for a glorious, sharp-edged second until he gets his breath back. The friction is enough to drive him insane, even with the rather vast quantity of lubrication, and he can’t imagine ever being in quite this much pleasure before or after. “Do I--do you want me to—”

 

His hand comes to rest over Yukimura’s cock, unsure, not knowing whether that would make it better or worse or do nothing at all, and his hips snap up again when he feels how _hard_ Yukimura is, hard and dripping so much it’s a small puddle on his stomach. “Holy…”

 

There goes what's _left_ of his sanity. Go figure, of _course_ he'd just like it when Sanada holds him down and shoves it in him like that. He's going to regret this later--but probably not, probably never, not when he arches his back and wriggles and squirms and the next, breathy noise that leaves his throat is more than eager. "You," Yukimura pants out, his thighs squeezing around Sanada's waist, his hands in Sanada's hair, dragging his mouth to his neck, "are perfect, stop asking questions, you're _literally_ perfect and I'm _so_ close, Genichirou--"

 

Really close, like to the best thing ever, and every muscle vibrating in his body tells him that and god does he _need it_.

 

“Not gonna make it,” Sanada gasps, because he’s closer than he’s ever been, somehow, and Yukimura is grabbing at him, and he’s _inside Yukimura._ He’s not entirely sure what he’s not going to make it to, but he’s quite positive that he isn’t going to make it. 

 

And then, just like that, he does.

 

The next thrust is harder, more _needful_ , and it drags along his cock, the lube wearing off just enough to make it burn a little. Apparently, that’s what he needs, because his entire body seizes with pleasure. All control goes out the window, and he slams in deeper than he means to, almost convulsing in his need, slamming in again and again as he comes what feels like more than he ever has in his life, deep inside Yukimura, and just the thought of _where he’s coming_ is enough to send him over the edge again.

 

He’s not sure what sound he makes when it happens, but it probably isn’t anything coherent enough to be a name, and it definitely isn’t flattering. White spots burst in front of his eyes, and he slumps down, twitching hard, gone boneless and pathetic.

 

 _That_ feels weird, and good, and a bunch of other things all at once, and Yukimura's mind cheerfully shuts the fuck up. 

 

He actually doesn't really remember _coming_. Mostly, he remembers clinging so tightly to Sanada that he's not sure he himself can breathe, and he remembers kind of…falling, his body giving up and every nerve feeling achingly overused when everything twitches and tingles. _Every_ part of his body is a shaky mess when he finally regains the motor control to let Sanada _go_ , and his hands hurt from how white-knuckled his grip was. 

 

Yukimura blinks hard, his vision blurry and that's not changing because it's also wet and that's just weird. If sex makes him into a crybaby, too, that's new, but it could be worse. In the aftermath, everything is definitely sore, but he can't even bring himself to swat at Sanada and make him move because warm and sticky and heavy and all of that is surprisingly therapeutic.

 

“Love you.” The words are archaic as well as half-sobbed, and Sanada doesn’t regret them a bit. “Seiichi. I want you for the rest of my life. I’ll get better at this. I’ll build you cabins and tennis courts.” He’d have thought he’d be too exhausted to talk, but apparently not. “I...if that’s what coming is supposed to feel like, maybe I haven’t ever done it before.”

 

Yukimura wishes that his smack to Sanada's back was harder, but he's pretty floppy right now, so it's not much of anything. Also, shit, he's just going to start crying now, too, apparently. That's _so_ not cool, but… "Genichirou, don't you _ever_ leave me," he huffs, and stuffs his face into Sanada's neck. "You're already perfect, so shut up, I love you, too, and look, just because it was a really good orgasm doesn't mean you've never had one before in the past."

 

“When,” Sanada asks, huffing out a breath as he tries, god, he _tries_ to control his emotions, “are you going to be out of that hitting mood?”

 

"When you start kissing me enough to soften me up again."

 

The next laugh is wet, and Sanada presses his lips to Yukimura’s, knowing the kiss is just as damp. Even that little movement is enough to shift him inside, and he grimaces, sliding back just enough to slip out, followed by a slow ooze of liquid. “How….how was it? I mean, obviously we’ll both get better at the logistics, but basically?”

 

Yukimura hisses out a breath, blinking hard up towards the ceiling to get rid of that little prick of less-pleasant tears. Ow, ow, ow. It doesn't feel as good when Sanada's out of him, that's for sure. "Really good," he breathes all the same, and sags back down into the bed in a heap. "I'm pretty into being your wife, by the way. I wanted to tell you I wasn't joking, but we got distracted, obviously."

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sanada grumbles, embarrassed now. “You’re making fun of me.”

 

Yukimura stretches out one long leg, and slowly kneads his toes against Sanada's thigh. "What, you don't want me to be your bride? I'd be a fashionable one, at least." 

 

“You’re not a woman.” Sanada can’t quite summon the annoyance in a level high enough to smack Yukimura’s foot away, but he considers it. “And I’d never want you to be. Obviously.” He frowns slightly, and adds, “I’ve never really asked. Do you like women, too? Or are you like me?”

 

"I'm not offering to be a woman, Gen-n- _n_. Ah, you're no fun." Carefully, Yukimura drags himself up into a sitting position, making a few pointed, irritated growling noises at the soreness in his muscles and…in other weird places. "I _like_ women." Theoretically. "I definitely think they're pretty. Heh, I used to draw you as a woman a lot, I should try that again sometime…" 

 

Sanada shrugs, flopping down on his back, glad now that he’d sprung for the largest bed they had. “I was just curious. Do your parents…” He cuts himself off, ruffling his own hair. “Never mind, this isn’t the time to talk about that kind of thing. I just want to lay here with you for a while.”

 

"What, no reaction to the gender bending? Really?" Yukimura flops down on top of him, nestling up underneath his chin. "My mom spent so long in France that she nearly popped me out over there," he wryly points out, "and my dad doesn't care about anything. You _know_ they don't care. Also, they love you." 

 

“I know.” Sanada tightens his arms around Yukimura--god, they feel comfortable there. It’s where they’ve always been meant to be, and he knows it. “I know they don’t care that we’re together. I didn’t know whether they’re still expecting you to really get married someday, like mine are.”

 

"Eh? No way. I mean, unless you count to a tennis racquet…" Yukimura trails off, frowning, and peers up at him through the mess of his hair. "I'll kidnap you to England. You can't get married." 

 

Sanada tugs on his hair. “I didn’t say I was _going_ to. But you know they’re expecting it, right?” He worries slightly at his bottom lip. He hadn’t remembered how progressive, how Western Yukimura’s family is in contrast to his own.

 

"…Okay, but," Yukimura says, his brow furrowing. "You could just tell them already that it's not going to happen. Then they're not expecting it." 

 

“Can we not talk about this right now?” Sanada turns his head to the side, mouthing against Yukimura’s ear. It had seemed like an inevitability--an _obvious_ one. There hadn’t seemed to be any need to say it. Now, he just wishes he could take it back. “You’re here. I’m here. I know what it’s like to be inside you. I love you. What could be better than that?”

 

Sometimes, Yukimura remembers how painfully traditional Sanada is, and it just makes him sigh. "Fine, fine. Consider it dropped." He snuggles up against the other boy instead, butting his head underneath his chin. "I love you, too. And this cabin." Taking his mind off of a lot of things, tennis included, seems a lot easier now.

 

Sanada lets out a long breath of relief. At least like this, it’s easy. They can be happy. He kisses Yukimura’s cheek again, then flops back ruefully. “I’d planned on making love to you five or six times,” he confides. “I hadn’t expected it to take so much out of me. Are you sore? The article said it might feel strange for a while, or you’d need to...well. You know.”

 

Yukimura bites his shoulder instead of hitting him this time. "Five or six times is way too many. You can do that over the course of this one week, I think. I'm sore, but I'm fine, and _not_ getting up right now." 

 

“Sleep if you’re sleepy.” Watching Yukimura really sleep has become one of the finer pleasures of Sanada’s life. “Or I’ll cook for you if you’re hungry. Or…” He draws a thumb up Yukimura’s arm, then down, slow and easy. “Or we can just stay like this until we need a bath.”

 

Yukimura smiles, and flops his head back down onto Sanada's chest. "If you put me to sleep, I'll just wake up and expect you to fish for me in a fundoshi later. I believe you promised." 

 

Sanada just holds him, and smiles. “I always keep my promises. We’re here, aren’t we?”

 


	28. Yagyuu & Niou

Niou hates Yagyuu more than he misses him.

 

After all, Yagyuu is a prick. Yagyuu is an asshole. Yagyuu should be the one apologizing first--down on his knees, really, if Niou has anything to say about it. Yagyuu’s the one that can’t be trusted, because shit, Niou isn’t the one that _fucked everything up._

 

A day after Nationals, Niou Googles “how to make him apologize first.”

 

He prowls, the way only cats and he can, with about the same temperament as a studdy tom. He almost fucks a girl in a club (why the bouncers let him in, he has no idea), and leaves instead as soon as she gets her hand down his pants. It doesn’t feel right, so he goes to a gay club (and the bouncer lets him in only after he flashes a lot of cash). He almost lets a guy drag him into the back room and fuck him senseless, and is pretty sure later that night that he should have, and the only reason he didn’t is because the fuckface has a beauty mark. If he wanted to see that shit, he’d fuck himself. Not like he never has.

 

Three days after Nationals, Niou Googles “how to get back together and still be right and make him think it’s his idea because it’s really all his fault and not mine.”

 

Mostly, Niou is angry, angry at himself for being predictable. He hates knowing that someone could look at him and think, yes, this is a guy that’s been dumped, it makes total sense for him to act this way.

 

He takes up smoking again, and drops it, disgusted. He adopts three stray cats, then kicks them out when they sleep on his tennis uniform. 

 

A week after Nationals, Niou Googles train times back to Shikoku, and hates himself for wanting a hug from his mother.

 

Niou comes to the sickening conclusion that he misses Yagyuu more than he hates him, and he does not, in fact, have his pride. It’s almost two in the morning when he dials Yagyuu’s number, then hangs up in disgust. If he wakes the bastard, he’s _wrong_ , and he’s pretty sure that taking the first step by calling is as gross as he wants to be.

 

So instead, he waits until 6:05 in the morning, after Yagyuu brushes his teeth, and Niou hates himself for knowing that he’s calling exactly 3.5 cups of tea into Yagyuu’s day.

 

No one ever calls him, is the thing. 

 

That's why his phone buzzing makes Yagyuu jump and nearly drop his half-way finished cup of tea. Warily, he glances down at it, and the number flashing across the front of it makes his stomach twist into knots.

 

He's not sure if he _can_ answer, is the other thing.

 

He's apologized in spades to Yukimura, to Sanada, to everyone else, but that's about tennis, not about…something else. Niou is a special case, and he's not even entirely sure he should be apologizing with his face to the ground about anything. Is it really his fault? How much did he mess up, exactly? 

 

He flip-flops on the issue, obviously. 

 

On the last ring, Yagyuu picks up the phone and flips it open, but doesn't say anything until he's out of the kitchen and hiding up in his room again. Actually, he has a hard time of thinking what to say then, too, and he sort of awkwardly holds the phone up, stressing until he blurts out: "I didn't think you'd call again."

 

That uncomfortable silence--almost-silence, anyway, he can hear the big dork breathing--is better than words. Niou can handle uncomfortable silence, he finds. It’s what comes after that’s difficult, because what comes after is Yagyuu and _feelings_ and shit. 

 

Niou finds himself wishing for a cigarette, but he’d given the last of his pack to the cats as a consolation prize for kicking them out. All he has is an orange, so he peels it slowly, angrily, with his nails. There’s an urge to just say _Puri_ , but that’s a prank call thing, and Yagyuu doesn’t quite get him enough to know what it would really mean.

 

“Wasn’t sure you’d answer.” That hurts to say, makes Niou feel sick and ugly, and he says without thinking, “I wanna be sure again.”

 

"I don't…" What Niou is saying is way cooler than anything he could manage, and that makes Yagyuu feel even more insecure about this whole thing than he already does. He swallows hard, starts counting weird grooves in his ceiling, and almost loses track of the conversation (if it can even be called that). 

 

"I don't know what you want me to say." His hand shakes on the phone, and he switches it to his other hand. That doesn't help. "I'm…" He trails off again, nervous, awkward, so stupidly and pathetically awkward, and finally says, really quietly: "I miss you, though." 

 

“I didn’t fuck him.” There’s something almost petulant, almost sad in Niou’s voice. Sure. _Almost_. 

 

“I didn’t fuck anyone. I just--fuck, are you coming back?” Niou feels something cold and wet, and looks down to see that three of his fingers are sunk deep into the stupid orange. Yukimura’s right, and he does need his nails clipped.

 

"I…" Yagyuu hesitates, and frowns, and glances down even though Niou's not there and it's not like he has to meet his eyes or anything. "Like, coming over? Or relationship things or what, I'm--ugh. Niou-kun, can I say I'm sorry and can we never talk about this again, because it's really awful and awkward." Rattling it off like that may or may not have good results, Yagyuu doesn't know. 

 

“Yeah, shit, both. Fuck.” Niou sinks down to the ground, folding himself up into a ball, and his voice is somehow both harsh and weak at the same time. “Get here fast. I’ve been me for too long.”

 

He doesn’t want anyone to see him like this. At some point, Yagyuu stopped counting as “anyone,” he guesses.

 

It's probably pointless to explain to Niou that he's supposed to be babysitting his little sister today, and…okay. Okay, he can make this work. He's _going to_ , at any rate. 

 

"Don't tell Kaasan that I'm leaving you alone."

 

Mei isn't very trustworthy on most days, but this will do for now. 

 

It takes about an hour to get to Niou's apartment, and he still has the key. Not that it matters--the door is unlocked, with a few stray cats lingering around outside (where did they get those cigarettes), and Yagyuu gingerly steps over them to walk inside. "Niou-kun?" Hopefully, he isn't dead or dying. 

 

Niou makes some small effort to drag himself into a standing position. He raises one eyebrow, but it’s not exactly the cocky move he wants it to be. “Go ahead and tell me I look like shit. Even the cats told me that already.” And he knows it’s true, since every time he passes a mirror the circles under his eyes are a little darker, and his hair hasn’t been properly crunchy for days. His roots have even grown out, enough that he’s started wearing a hoodie on the few occasions he leaves the apartment, and every surface is covered with delivery pizza boxes. Three or four mean things about how Yagyuu looks are on his own tongue, but he finds quite suddenly that the act of saying them is more than he’s up to. That perfectly pressed clothing, the glinting ineffable eyes behind the glasses, the way Yagyuu’s lips part slightly when he doesn’t know what to say--shit, how’s he supposed to insult the big dork when he’s so fucking desirable?

 

"…Well, they're wrong." 

 

The words leave his mouth before he can censor them, and that's embarrassing. Yagyuu's face flushes, and he shuts the door properly, locking it, and toeing off his shoes as he looks to the ground. He's an idiot. He's not just that, he's really, really stupid. "You look good to me. Do you want me to bleach your hair or something?" Not that it matters. He's dumb, but he does like Niou's roots, just a little (a lot).

 

“Not yet. Not going out.” Niou looks around for something to do with his hands, but only sees the half-mangled orange. Yeah, that’s no good, so he shoves his hands into his pockets instead, annoyed at himself and Yagyuu and everything in between...and there does seem to be a hell of a lot in between. “Who’s wrong?” he asks, hating to admit ignorance and doing it anyway. “Who fucked up? Because I’m like, a minute away from saying fuck it and just jumping you, but if I do that we’re just gonna do this again in like a week, because you think I can’t keep it in my pants and maybe I can’t.”

 

 _I thought we didn't have to talk about this_ is the desperate thing on Yagyuu's tongue, but apparently, they're going to talk about it, and oh, god, that's no good at all. 

 

"…I think both?" Yagyuu tries, shrugging helplessly. He lingers near the door for another moment, and only sidesteps away from it slightly. "I…it's…I think I probably would have dropped it, and believed you," he admits, "and I do, now. But the way you said that one thing--that if you were just after a pretty face, it wouldn't be _me_ that you were dating…" Ugh, stupid, this is stupid, he's stupid. He's mortified enough that he really, seriously considers jumping out the door and offering himself as a human meal to the cats.

 

“That wasn’t what I fucking meant.” That’s real anger in Niou’s voice, and it isn’t directed at Yagyuu so much as it is at himself. “You interrupted me. I was saying...I don’t fucking remember, something about how I could fuck anyone with a pretty face, but you’re a hell of a lot more. Shit, you know I _don’t_ date anyone just because they’re pretty, you fucking _know_ that, I don’t date anyone.”

 

Because dating leaves him like this, apparently, surrounded by smoking cats and pizza boxes with bad hair, hunching down to the ground and hating the floor and the air for being space between the two of them.

 

"Oh." It's actually even worse to be _that_ wrong about the whole thing, and the human meat sacrifice idea comes back in spades. Yagyuu swallows, thinks, pushes up his glasses, and draws a complete blank.

 

Except to just…slowly inch over, and plop down onto the floor next to Niou, hunched up in a very similar ball.

 

"Then it was my fault, and I'm dumb, and I'm sorry." 

 

Niou pretty much falls to the side. He buries his head in Yagyuu’s lap, then hunches his way closer, forcing the Yagyuu-ball open to climb into his lap, creating a space for himself and smelling like orange pulp. “I fucked up too. Stay. We’re both fucking filth, just be me for a while and I’ll be you and it’ll be my fault.”

 

Fucking hell, the relief of having Niou back in his lap again is enough to knock the breath out of his lungs, and Yagyuu kind of likes that he smells weirdly like oranges, anyway. "Can we…like…do this at my house?" he hesitantly asks, winding his arms firmly around Niou and refusing to let go even as he asks that. "You can still be me, I'm supposed to be watching my little sister and I wanted to just leave her at the arcade but you _know_ how shy she is and…look, the wig will even cover up your hair." 

 

“Yeah. Gimme your shit.” Niou wriggles out of his shirt as if it’s been a year since he’s been someone else, not a week, and somehow manages to strip out of his shorts without getting off of Yagyuu’s lap. For once, being naked doesn’t mean he’s all over his partner. Instead, he sets himself to the task of his socks, carefully rolling them up, and taking out the fake rattail, tucking it up into his hairline. “You know,” he says thoughtfully, relief in every syllable, “you should be mad when I can be around someone else naked and _not_ fuck them. You’re the only one.” That’s a dumb thing to admit, and Niou mentally hisses a little at himself.

 

Yagyuu heaves a long sigh in Niou's general direction. "I don't like being mad _period_ ," he grouses, taking off his glasses and handing those over first as he methodically undoes the buttons of his shirt. "Mostly, I just want…" No, that's getting way too sappy and stupid and _homo_ and nope, nope, nope. That being said--Niou is warm and naked in his lap and he stills his own undressing to grab him again for a moment, squeezing him to his chest. 

 

Niou tenses for a second, then flops. “Me too,” he says, more in response to what Yagyuu didn’t say than in response to the comment about being mad. He shoves the glasses on his face, and his vision rearranges itself, all swirly and nauseating and good.

 

Briefly, Yagyuu shoves his face down into Niou's hair, breathing in deep. It's not crunchy like it usually is, and Niou's got some serious roots going on, enough that anyone would know his natural hair color and that's no good at all. He'll fix that later, definitely. "I need to keep giving you my clothes," he says. "But I don't want to let you go. That's an issue." 

 

“How bad does Mei-chan need a babysitter?” Niou says, muffled into Yagyuu’s stupid skinny chest that has way more muscles than anyone would expect. No, he’s going to be at least a little good and try not to sort of bite his chest, not even though Yagyuu deserves it and Niou deserves to taste him after a week of gross unforced celibacy.

 

"She doesn't _need_ one," Yagyuu says, logically. "But I'm supposed to _be_ there. She's gonna be in her room drawing BL the whole time, so we could get there and just kind of…never leave my room. Except for when I need to feed you." 

 

“I _do_ need to be fed,” Niou agrees, and finally starts peeling himself away (grumpily) from Yagyuu’s chest. “This is no good,” he mutters. He considers protesting that Yagyuu hasn’t even kissed him yet, but _shit_ that’s a nasty homo thing to say. Instead, he straightens up, in character already though all he has are the glasses, and tilts Yagyuu’s chin up for a gentlemanly kiss. Yeah, that’s way less gross.

 

Ah. Okay.

 

When they do things like this, it's a lot easier. Things make sense a bit more, which is weird, but still good, and so Yagyuu just lets himself be kissed as a result, giving Niou's lower lip a bite for good measure. That feels _way_ too good after what feels like ages without, and he gives up, immediately grabbing for Niou's arms and yanking him back down into his lap, right between his legs, because _fuck it_. 

 

Niou lets out a noise--a noise that says all of this is _quite_ undignified, and he’s _quite_ long-suffering, thank you--and grabs at Yagyuu’s shoulders. “Let me make it up to you, Niou-kun,” he breathes, going for that jump of nervousness and eager scandal that Yagyuu is always projecting. “Anything--let me do something good for you, just the way you like it.”

 

This is so much fucking easier, and Yagyuu is _ready_ for that.

 

He's glad his shirt is already mostly unbuttoned, because he shrugs at it like he's shedding his skin, slouching underneath Niou's grasp when he flops down onto the floor, head on a pizza box and his hands raking down Niou's spine. "Fuck me." His mouth is dry, and his head is spinning, and that feels _great_. "Fuck me until I can't _move_." 

 

Niou’s hands are so ready they’re almost fumbling, but no, not quite. There’s enough casual elegance in them from years of practice (suddenly remembered) that he still manages to grab sure and strong. He tweaks a nipple, just the way he likes it, tugging and rolling it between his fingers. “I want to see you with your legs spread,” he says, eyes raking down the newly exposed flesh, hands pawing at his abdomen, his thighs, avoiding his cock. “Wide, so I can see where you need me. Can you do that for me, Niou-kun?”

 

Yagyuu wonders if it's normal to get this hard, this fast. Probably not. His breath catches all up in his chest, and he's never been quicker about shucking his pants and underwear, kicking them aside with enough force that there's another box mountain that goes tumbling down. His cock throbs once it's actually free, aching in the chilly air of Niou's apartment, and he squirms to spread his legs wide. "You're such a fucking pervert, Yaaagyuu," he breathes, eyes lidded and dark. It doesn't matter that his vision is blurry, he can see more than enough. "You gonna want to watch me get ready, too?" 

 

Niou nods, swallowing hard when the words are so _lewd_ , no matter that he’s said worse a hundred times. “We’ll see,” he breathes, hands squeezing Yagyuu’s thighs, “if I can wait long enough--ah, but you need to be prepared carefully, don’t you? Show me you’re still tight for me.” He leans down, breath hot on Yagyuu’s ear, and murmurs, “I’ll know if you’ve been bending over for anyone but me, Niou-kun. If you have anything to confess, do it now.” 

 

His eyes are challenging. Time to see if Yagyuu really does understand him, or if he’s really married to the idea of Niou being an uncontrollable slut.

 

"Fuck you," is the breathy, ragged mutter underneath Yagyuu's breath. "You fucking _know_ I've been hard up without you, you ass. Wasn't this about making it up to _me?"_

 

Sounds about right, Yagyuu thinks, especially when he's making a mindless grab for Niou's cock, his fingers coming away slick when they drag up it from root to tip. "Looks like you've been just as bad," he snidely points out, getting a good bite in on Niou's shoulder. "You're not even gonna be able to get it in at this rate." 

 

Fuck, if Yagyuu isn’t careful, Niou’s going to fall in love with him or something. 

 

“Just for that,” he says instead, adjusting his glasses with one delicate finger, “I think I’d like to prepare you myself. I do hope you can take it as fast as I’m going to give it to you...I’d just _hate_ for you to be uncomfortable.” 

 

There’s no sting in the words, just a teasing challenge, and Niou grabs the lube on the counter (one perk of living alone out of many) and wastes no time in sliding two, then three fingers in in quick succession. It’s a damn good thing they’re switched right now; for all that Niou loves taking dick, Yagyuu is unfortunately better at it, physically speaking. He dips his head down, resting his forehead against his shoulder. “You’re not wrong,” he adds, in a rough whisper. “Open up fast, or this isn’t going to last long at all, and I--I _need_ to be in you, Niou-kun.”

 

Even if he next to never does this, doesn't like it all that much, not _usually_ \--right now, there's literally nothing better.

 

His cock is hard enough between his legs that he has to reach down, choking down a ragged, broken groan when he squeezes at the base of it to keep from spilling right there with Niou's fingers buried in his ass. It feels really fucking good, and he grinds down against his hand, his head turning to the side to bite and suck at the side of Niou's neck, uncaring if he leaves a mark, though he knows it would normally be something that Niou would do to piss him off. 

 

"I need it." Yagyuu's own voice is rough around the edges, his other hand's perfectly filed nails still more than enough to leave red streaks down Niou's back. "Fucking hell, Yagyuu--just shove it in me, I'm--"

 

“You’re a damned slut is what you are,” Niou rasps, shoving at Yagyuu’s head to shove him down to the ground, but there’s no sting to the words, not to match the affection there. “Clawing at me like one of your diseased cats.” 

 

There’s the urge to clasp his own mouth to Yagyuu’s neck, sucking and biting, but that’s nothing he needs right now. No, now he needs to bein, and from the way Yagyuu’s bucking down on him, wanton and hungry, that’s no issue at all.

 

He pulls his hand out, and wipes it fastidiously on his own discarded shirt, because how many times has Yagyuu done that to him? “Take a deep breath,” he urges, hands under Yagyuu’s knees, yanking his legs back, apart, wide. It’s been long enough since they’ve done this that he has to stop and admire for a second, the way his hole is already stretched and shiny and red, and he smiles to himself, thinking about how it’s going to look in a minute. Yagyuu does that, he knows, and that knowledge is enough to make his hard cock twitch as he shoves it in, just as hard as Yagyuu would ever dare.

 

Considering how his back arches, his muscles twitch and bow and shudder, his hands immediately _on_ Niou's back even more strongly and insistently, that deep breath doesn't do much good and Yagyuu doesn't much care, besides.

 

It's mind-numbing, and maybe that's why he's never liked this that much. As Niou, though, he fucking loves it. His mind blanks out and he groans, squirming down even when he's _sure_ that Niou's in all the way, a desperate, needy grunt escaping his throat when he gets his legs around Niou's waist and writhes down like he's dying if he doesn't have more. "Just like that," he pants out, his eyes rolling back, licking his lips when he reaches his hands up and sinks them into Niou's hair. It's better that it's not crunchy right now, because it feels closer to his own. "Fuck-- _fuck_ , you always know how to fuck me right, Yaagyuu--"

 

Niou wonders if the real Yagyuu ever feels this surge of jealousy whenever he’s in balls-deep. Maybe, if he always looks like he’s having this much fun.

 

“That’s because you make it so easy, Niou-kun.” Niou’s voice is a whisper, his hands rough on Yagyuu’s legs, leaving bruises with every moment he thrusts in deep. Pretending and illusion are all well and good, but he can’t exactly pretend his dick any bigger, so he doesn’t feel any of the guilt the real Yagyuu ever does (should) when they fuck this hard. “You’re so bad at taking it, but you love it so much.”

 

A hand comes up and leaves a cruel, swift slap to one cheek of Yagyuu’s ass, and Niou’s breath hiccups as if he can’t believe how arousing that is. “You like it when I give you what you need.” It isn’t a question.

 

Yagyuu's voice breaks on a yelp, and yes, this is a good reason to do this here, not at home, because fuck keeping his voice down when he knows the walls here are thick and also, _he doesn't care_. "Just need it," he hungrily agrees, squirming to better grind down, panting hard when he still feels that _sting_ from Niou's hand when he moves just right. 

 

"Doesn't matter if it's too much--fuck, Yagyuu--" he sags down with a shudder, _tries_ to stay as tense as Niou always is, a wound-up ball of energy that just won't relax no matter how hard he's fucked, but that's hard when every thrust just turns him to shuddery goo. "Dunno if I can--you're just--" _Gonna make me come in like five seconds, that's just not fair, is this why you never last and I always do?_

 

“It’s fine.” Niou can feel his concentration fading, breaking when Yagyuu is so good, so tight and hot around him, so messy and fucked up and actually still wanting to be with him. It’s like they are on the court, invincible as each other until they aren’t, and Niou breaks, lurching into Yagyuu as he thrusts harder and harder, hips slamming down to meet his. “Fill you up,” he groans, because he might have Yagyuu’s glasses, but he sure as hell doesn’t have his stamina, and it’s with that rueful thought that he loses it, spilling deep and realizing only so much later that they hadn’t used a fucking condom, and being vindictively glad about the mess more than anything.

 

Yagyuu _hates_ the way that feels, but at the same time, it makes him come harder than he has in a long time. 

 

His hands claw down Niou's back, up into his hair, yanking him down for a messy, sloppy kiss that's mostly teeth, but more than enough to keep his voice down. His breath is still a ragged, useless mess, and they're going to be stuck together at this rate courtesy of the slippery, stickiness of his own come spilled over his stomach. 

 

He always feels _gross_ after things like this, but maybe that's better. He certainly doesn't let Niou pull away, and instead keeps a hand fisted into his hair to make sure they stay plastered together, sweaty and breathing hard.

 

“You like it, right?” Niou’s voice comes in long, hot pants, breathing out on Yagyuu’s ear, on his cheek. Yagyuu is good at switching, but sometimes he needs a reminder about who he’s supposed to be, what he’s supposed to feel. “You like the way it makes you all messy. Like you’re the used condom. It feels good to be used and thrown away, right?” He hopes his voice is still Yagyuu’s. Annoyingly, he’s feeling some things that aren’t, and tries to tamp that down by touching the glasses--yes, they’re askew, that’s probably the problem. That’s why his voice is coming out raw.

 

"Fucking hell," Yagyuu mutters, groaning as he flops back, his head banging down onto another fucking pizza box. He twitches and shivers and scrapes his nails down Niou's chest, halfheartedly using him like a scratching post. "Just…" He swallows hard, voice sticking in his throat. In character? Maybe. Can't process, doesn't give a shit now. "You're not allowed to really fucking throw me away."

 

“Idiot.” That comes out with a little more (or less) vitriol than Niou means it to, and he buries his face, glasses and all, in Yagyuu’s shoulder. “I’m the only one who won’t throw you away, Niou-kun. You won’t let me, will you?” There shouldn’t be an element of pleading in his voice, but it’s been a hard week, and everyone else he likes hates him, and the cats have taken his cigarettes.

 

"Dumbass. I'll drown you first." Yagyuu's face is in the other side of Niou's neck, and he huffs, breathing in sweat and Niou, which is always weird but less like wet cat today. "Might still do it. You know. In the shower. Where we could go right now." Look, his tolerance for being gross only goes so far.

 

Niou rolls his eyes, and takes off the glasses. “ _Lame_ , Yaaaagyuu. Put your fucking clothes back on, we’ll drown at your house and your perv sister can draw more BL about me and...what did she name him? Yukito Mura?”

 

"Miou and Yukito, yes." Yagyuu snatches his glasses back with a sniff. "Don't remind me, she had to print out 11 copies _each_ of her weird BL from _my_ printer."

 

Niou stretches out, grabs his shorts, realizes they’ve probably seen better moments, and tosses them back over his shoulder, slinking into the bedroom to grab something less...stiff. “You’re just mad because she keeps making you into Miou’s female classmate, _Hiroko_.”

 

Yagyuu scowls, reflexively shoving at his glasses as he hauls himself to his feet and primly begins straightening his clothing. At least it isn't _too_ worse for wear, but the fact that he's sticky and gross isn't exactly appealing. "I just don't understand why I'm the only one that she turned into a girl. Even Sanada is still a man, it's _strange_." 

 

“Duh.” Niou sticks his head out, wearing an absurdly stupid looking hat and a turtleneck, not that he’s run out of clothes or anything. “If she thinks about you in her little harem, she’d be thinking gross brocon thoughts. This way you’re safe, Hiro-chan.”

 

"Don't call me that. It's weird." Yagyuu sighs, long-suffering. "Niou-kun, at least bring some of your laundry so I can do it while we're babysitting." 

 

“Yeah,” Niou says, then looks around at the mess of the apartment. “That really seems like more work than I want to put in when my hair’s like this. Let’s just go, I don’t mind looking stupid for a day. We’re just gonna be in your room anyway.” There’s a flutter of his eyelashes at that last that makes it a lot dirtier than the words imply.

 

Undeterred (and unfazed), Yagyuu ignores him in favor of grabbing the nearest trash bag, stuffing it full of whatever discarded articles of clothing are around, and promptly hauls it behind him when they head towards the door. "I'm going to deal with the _rest_ of your apartment later, but this is a start. Imagine how disappointed Mei-can would be if Miou showed up less than _beautiful_." Gag.

 

“As long as Hiro-chan thinks I’m presentable,” Niou mutters, and locks the door behind him. Wherever he’s going has to be better than where he’s been. Yagyuu’s there.

 


	29. Atobe & Ryouma, Atobe & Tezuka

If there’s one thing Atobe doesn’t expect to see when he steps off the plane, surreptitously dropping his hand with Tezuka’s, it’s a crowd of reporters. In all fairness, he probably should expect them everywhere, what with his own infamy and the delightful nature of his personality, but he must admit, it’s a bit of a shock to have them so _obvious_. His smile doesn’t change as he waves, but with how many of them there are, with how hungry they look, he knows they’ve got something. “Brace yourself,” he whispers out of the corner of his mouth. “They know something.”

 

“Atobe-san, is it true you’re dating!?”

 

“Atobe-san, are the rumors of a gay love affair true?”

 

“Atobe-san, are you going to try to be the first openly gay pro tennis player?”

 

“Atobe-san—”

 

“Atobe-san—”

 

“Atobe-san, were you at the National Championships to cheer on your—”

 

“Atobe-san, did seeing him win the trophy—”

 

The only saving grace, as far as Atobe is concerned, is that no one is taking pictures of Tezuka. His own heart is frozen, then hammering, but this is just press. He’s been dealing with press all of his life, and neither they nor their invasive questions are nearly as bothersome as they could be, as long as they leave Tezuka alone.

 

The press aren’t difficult to deal with, since he knows what he’s doing. It’s easier to deal with them than it is to return home, knowing he’ll have to deal with Darryl, his father’s genius media consultant. He laughs off the matter in the car, still baffled at the origin of it all, even as he warns Tezuka that he’ll probably be seen in public with some scandalous married woman or other before the week is up. 

 

The numbness in Tezuka’s face is the worst of all, he thinks.

 

Then he’s abruptly forced to reconsider what “the worst of all” is when he finds his father has company.

 

Five hours later, dressed in borrowed sweats and cap from an annoyed Shishido, Atobe scales the side of an old house that sits on a shrine, hoping he’s not making anything worse, checking at every corner for more flashing cameras. The window is locked, obnoxiously, and he has to remind himself that Ryouma couldn’t possibly know who he’s locking out, or he wouldn’t have dared. “Oi! Echizen!” he hisses, knocking on the glass when Ryouma comes in, homework in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “Let me in!”

 

It takes a moment for Ryouma to figure out what, exactly, is making all of that noise. He blinks when it finally processes, and he nearly drops his water in the process. "Atobe-…sempai," he manages, his head tilting to the side, and he sets his things down before slowly padding over to the window. "What are you doing out there?" 

 

Atobe hauls himself in as soon as the window is open, grimacing in distaste at the indignity of it all. “I came to make certain you’re all right. I know how my father took it, but I wasn’t sure about yours.”

 

Ryouma stares at him, head still tilted. "…Took what?" he asks, clueless, and he reaches up to slowly tug on the bill of Atobe's hat. "That really looks weird on you…"

 

Atobe gives him a tragic, pained look, and shuts the blinds before taking off the hat. “The news story? Oh…” He flops down on Ryouma’s bed, sort of owning it, and attempts to pull off the sweatpants with some dignity. “Some fool of a reporter got it into their head to make up some story about the two of us being secret lovers. Your father was at my house when I got home.”

 

Huh. Well, that's weird. Ryouma plops down onto the bed next to him all the same, wondering why his dad hasn't freaked out on him yet, but that's just as well. "But we aren't secret lovers. You're dating Tezuka-buchou."

 

“Well. It isn’t as if we _haven’t_ been secret lovers,” Atobe points out with an arched brow, reaching out to tousle his hair. “I just came to check on you.” He makes a face. “And to ask if you’ll check up on Kunimitsu for me for the next week or so? I have to keep him out of this, no matter what.”

 

"…But was it really secret on purpose? We just didn't tell anyone." Ryouma stretches out, peering up at him through his bangs. "Tezuka-buchou isn't mad at me, is he?" 

 

Atobe blinks, startled. “Of course it was a secret, and no, he’s not angry with you. Honestly, it isn’t as if I can publicly flaunt the things I enjoy, with you or with him. According to my Public Relations Consultant, the best way to fight fire is with fire, so expect to hear me implicated in a much bigger scandal in the near future.” He’s pretty sure his father has some married socialite or supermodel all set up for him to romance in the next week or so.

 

"It's weird, Atobe-sempai." Ryouma reaches over, pulling on the hem of Atobe's shirt absently. "I feel like I just had this conversation the other day. Why do people care so much?"

 

Atobe shrugs. “Japan.” He wraps his arms around Ryouma on instinct, drawing the boy in to his chest, more for his own reassurance than Ryouma’s. “I say that,” he admits, “but it’s just as bad in other places. Worse, maybe. Here they just exclude you. It isn’t as if _I_ care, but…” He hesitates for a moment, then admits, “I was getting careless. I’d forgotten--but this is a good reminder. There’s a lot that’s expected of me.”

 

"You hang out with Tezuka-buchou all the time and you still let your guard down. Shame on you, Atobe-sempai," Ryouma deadpans as he burrows against Atobe's chest, breathing in deep. "We weren't even dating. I just don't get why it matters." 

 

“Because I have enemies. My father, really, has enemies.” Atobe grimaces, and his hands fist in Ryouma’s shirt. “And I still have to make a suitable husband one day.”

 

“Oi! Ryouma!” A lazy knock at the door precedes an attempt to open it, which is met with annoyed failure. “Open up, brat. Gotta talk to you.”

 

"Che." Ryouma lifts his head, but otherwise, makes no attempt to move. "I'm busy, Oyaji. Homework things." He looks over at Atobe, and says very seriously: "How do you feel about pillow forts?" 

 

“I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” Atobe says frankly. “But doubtless I could procure enough pillows to fill a fort.”

 

“This is more important than homework. Naa, are you gonna make me beg for the pleasure of my son’s company? We can have this talk through the door if you want!”

 

"Gather all the pillows," Ryouma solemnly says as he sits up. "There are more in my closet. I'll be back. Oyaji, I hate you," he firmly calls back before stalking over to the door, unlocking it, and slipping out of his bedroom before his father can get a glimpse inside. "What do you even _want?_ " 

 

Echizen Nanjirou tosses a tennis ball against the wall, catching it each time. It gives him a convenient excuse not to look his son in the eye. “I’ve had one of the grossest conversations I can think of today,” he says, making a face. “Also, if you want a billion yen, lemme know.”

 

Ryouma's brow furrows, and he leans back against his bedroom door. "How many tennis racquets can that buy?" 

 

“Of the snotty kind you like? Eh, I dunno. A lot.” Nanjirou tosses the ball higher, bouncing it off the ceiling and wall before deftly snatching it out of the air. “That Atobe guy’s dad said he’d give it to you if you stopped seeing him.” The curiously flat tone of his voice belies the obvious emotional response in his words.

 

"…That's really stupid." It's actually so stupid that Ryouma doesn't even know where to start, and so he just frowns. "I'm not gonna do that. Why were you talking to Atobe-sempai's dad, anyway? That's just weird, you never leave the house because you're old."

 

“Oi, you’re not the only one that gets invited places! Plenty of people want my company!” Nanjirou throws the ball harder, wishing they could play during this, but that always makes Ryouma crabby. “What’s-his-name sent a limo for me, I figured they were throwing a party for me. Obviously. Turns out he wanted to talk about some nasty thing they were saying about my kid in the paper. Eugh, as if they don’t have enough to worry about without bothering a damn kid whose voice hasn’t dropped about gross sex stuff…”

 

"Oyaji, you're making this so weird," Ryouma mutters, shifting uncomfortably and folding his arms tightly over his chest. "Atobe-sempai's my friend, and we aren't dating. There you go, there's what you've been wanting to ask."

 

 _Thunk_. The ball hits the wall, and Nanjirou snatches it again. “I didn’t want to ask. I just wanted to know if you wanted the money.” 

 

 _Thunk_.

 

“Or if I need to be prepared to read articles about your sex life for the next twenty years.”

 

"Well, if people are gonna be busy lying about it, maybe," Ryouma huffs, scuffing his foot against the ground. "Or poking their nose where it doesn't belong. They should just leave Atobe-sempai alone, and me, too. We've both got _boyfriends_ , so this is all really dumb."

 

The tennis ball hits the ground, and Nanjirou picks it up, still not meeting Ryouma’s eyes. “That captain of yours? Or the one with the bike that always comes to get you? Or--no, it’s the redhead.” He tries not to make a face. “Just stick it out a couple years, you’ll see how _cute_ girls are. With the…” He makes a few motions with his hands, suggestively grabbing at the air.

 

"Gross, Oyaji." On all counts, really, and so Ryouma just rolls his eyes. "Girls are gross, too, but not as gross as you. You met Kintarou the other day, and you were a jerk to him, and I hate you."

 

Nanjirou tosses the ball at his son’s face. “Stop being such a little asshole. I’m trying to not be so serious about the whole thing. Shit, I thought you wanted to go to the Open again this year.”

 

Ryouma catches the ball with a scowl. "I do, and so what? Just because I have a boyfriend isn't gonna change anything about how I play tennis."

 

“You can’t be that stupid.” Nanjirou leans back against the wall, then fumbles in the pocket of his yukata for a cigarette. “You grew up in America, dumbass. You know what everyone’ll say about you, how they’d treat you.”

 

"It's still not gonna change how I play _tennis._ " Ryouma looks at him, exasperated, and throws the ball right back to his face. "Forget it, I need to go help Atobe-sempai learn how to build a pillow fort, you're just making things worse."

 

“So he _is_ here?” Nanjirou vaguely means to fake ducking at the ball, but that’s a lot of work when he’s focused on something else, and he snatches the ball out of the air without a thought. “Be careful, brat. Public opinion means more than you think it does. Ask your brother about that sometime.” He shoves the ball back into the pocket of his yukata, annoyed, and desperately needing a smoke.

 

"Who?" Ryouma deadpans, pretty sure his dad is just being weird as hell, as per usual. "And yeah, Atobe-sempai is here. Because _you_ talked to his dad earlier and made things worse, I bet."

 

“That’s me,” Nanjirou says airily. “I definitely seek out powerful men and talk about my kid’s sex life to them. Also, your so-called friend is rude as hell! He referred to you as ‘the relevant Echizen,’ the asshole.”

 

 _That_ makes Ryouma's lips slowly twitch into a smirk. "Well, he's not wrong. You're old and have hip problems." 

 

“Oi, we can go a round right now! Then we’ll see who has _hip problems_. Jeez, win one National Championship and you’re more full of yourself than ever.” Nanjirou flops down to the couch, flipping on the tv and grabbing a magazine he doesn’t even bother to hide anymore. “And leave the door open.”

 

"I'm not gonna leave the door open." 

 

“ _Gross_ , kid.” Despite the words, Nanjirou hardly gets up to enforce the rule. That would mean admitting there’s a reason to, and that’s something he really doesn’t want to think about too hard.

 

 _It's not like I'm gonna do anything_ , Ryouma wants to say, but that's giving meaning to his father's concerns, and so he just makes a face at Nanjirou before turning right back around and going into his room. "Sorry," he crossly mutters, locking the door and then hauling his desk partially in front of it. "Gotta barricade us in, my dad's the worst."

 

“If he’s letting you barricade us in, he’s not the worst.” The words are intended to come out gloomily, but how can anyone be truly gloomy when there are this many pillows, and he’s not just allowed, but _encouraged_ to do ridiculous amounts of construction with them? “Come inside the pillow fort, Echizen. The barrier is structurally sound.”

 

Ryouma eyes it skeptically, and grabs a blanket to drape it over the top of the structure for added barrier effect. "Hmmm. Not bad, Atobe-sempai. I'd say this was a B+ pillow fort. Oh, I need my cat," he suddenly remembers, and drops down underneath the bed to haul out a sleeping Karupin.

 

Atobe’s face lights up, and he immediately makes space for Karupin, wriggling to the side carefully so as not to destroy the structural integrity. “I see this is now a mixed-media pillow-and-blanket installation. Of course, steel is stronger than carbon and iron alone. Ah, your cat is much less bitey than mine, good.”

 

"Reeehneeeh."

 

"He likes you," Ryouma translates, and slowly climbs into the pillow fort himself, pleased at this arrangement. "My dad seems to think I can't play tennis well if I have a boyfriend."

 

“I’d think the current rankings of the best players in Japan would be a rather damning indictment of that opinion,” Atobe says, raising an eyebrow. This is relaxing, even if he is wearing appallingly ugly clothing.

 

Karupin starts licking Atobe's sweatpants. "But I'm number one on the juniors circuit right now, and I have a boyfriend."

 

“And also in the top five are myself, Kunimitsu, and those two mooney-eyed lunatics from Rikkai, which is my point exactly. What? What the hell was Shishido wiping on these? _Ugh_ , must be his strange cheese sandwich fetish.”

 

"Karupin also just likes pants. I mean, maybe he's saying that the _other_ rankings don't read like that, but I don't care." Ryouma huffs, flopping down hard, and the pillow fort wiggles a bit. "Atobe-sempai, does it cost a lot to go to Osaka frequently." 

 

Atobe frowns. “Good lord, I have no idea. What counts as a lot of money? Also, are we talking by shinkansen, ship, helicopter, horseback…”

 

"I guess shinkansen? I dunno, I thought you might. Maybe I should ask Tezuka-buchou later, he'd know." Ryouma tugs gently on Karupin's tail when he just won't stop licking, but at least Atobe doesn't seem to mind it too much. 

 

Absently, Atobe reaches down and scritches the cat behind his ears. “I bet he would know. He’s ever so good with practical things like that.” His voice is slightly wistful, for all that they’d just spent the week together in the Alps. “Ah, rude of me, I didn’t even ask how your date with Shitenhouji’s Kintarou was...though if you’re asking about frequent tickets to Osaka, I’m assuming it went well?”

 

"Mm, even though you couldn't help me very much about hickeys," Ryouma crossly reminds him, huddling down into the fort a bit more. 

 

"Reehneeh."

 

"Don't mock me, Karupin. How was I supposed to know? I've never gotten marks like _that_ before."

 

Atobe turns his head to the side, hooking a finger in Ryouma’s collar and tugging it slightly, a smirk forming. “He got you _good_. Seriously, you didn’t try the thing I suggested. Besides, the best part about neck biting is that it leaves marks. There are plenty of fun places to put your mouth that are less incriminating.”

 

"Yeah, but I _like_ it when people bite my neck and stuff," Ryouma mutters, swatting at Atobe's hand with a huff. "I couldn't try that thing you told me because my dad and cousin would've really noticed, then. Tezuka-buchou never has marks, do you just not bite him or something?" 

 

At that, Atobe looks pleased. “I _told_ him no one would notice the scarves. But no, usually I stick to other locations.” One side of his lips quirk up. “I told you, we are making at least an attempt to keep it quiet. His grandfather would probably have me arrested for corrupting the youth, not to mention what he’d be risking in terms of his pro career. I wouldn’t do that to him.”

 

"Ah…Kaidou-sempai did mention the scarves, but I've still never noticed." Ryouma scoots closer, setting his cheek against Atobe's chest. "Do you really think that I can't play tennis if I have a boyfriend?" 

 

Atobe is familiar enough with Ryouma by this point to know when the child needs to be petted, and immediately starts stroking his hair. “Obviously I don’t think that. Hell, if you have any trouble getting sponsors because of it by the time I take over Father’s company, I’ll sponsor you myself. I’d pledge it now, but in light of recent circumstances...I, ah, doubt I’d be allowed to.” He _hates_ not being able to do the things he wants to do, because what else is wealth good for?

 

"I've never needed help getting sponsors, though. They just kind of show up." Butting his head against Atobe's hand, Ryouma slings an arms and a leg over the other boy, snuggling up with Karupin sort of sitting on Atobe's hip. "But thanks. Everyone else seems to act like it's gonna make it so I can't go pro, but I think that's dumb." 

 

“Anyone who bets against you is a fucking fool,” Atobe says frankly. “Besides, you have so many outlier factors. You’re Asian, for one thing. Don’t ask why, but that will help.” His mouth twists in distaste, and he tucks his chin over Ryouma’s head. “You’ll get the most opposition from Japan, but there shouldn’t be any danger. I’m assuming you already know it will be dangerous for you in America.”

 

"I lived in New York, I think I can handle it." 

 

Ryouma pushes his face against Atobe's neck, slowly nuzzling. "It's not like I'm gonna flaunt it or anything. I wouldn't flaunt it if I were dating a girl, either. That's just lame."

 

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Atobe says, hand still stroking gently, “but you know New York from the position of a wealthy prodigy.” He remembers, briefly, how it feels to be marginalized, wealthy or not, member of an elite group or not, with the older boys standing around and taunting him for his playing, his heritage, the fact that he’s new money. The taunting and violence, he knows, are nothing compared to what would have happened had he not been so protected by his name and status. “I’m not saying you’ll flaunt it, but if someone asks you, I doubt you’d lie.”

 

"Well, no. I won't." Ryouma huffs, and drags his teeth over Atobe's collar bone in a faint bite. "Because that seems really dumb. Also, there's no point in lying when Kintarou won't lie, either." 

 

Atobe flicks Ryouma in the forehead. “God, no marks today of all days, not above the neckline. How do his family feel about it, by the way? Or your father, I didn’t ask.”

 

"Dunno about his. My dad thinks it's gross, I think." That should probably bother him more than it does, but Ryouma just shrugs and takes a snap at Atobe's finger instead. "This is all really, really dumb."

 

“The world can be, in general,” Atobe agrees. He traces his finger across Ryouma’s lips, amused despite his annoyance. “You _could_ always do what I’m going to do, of course. Find a suitable girl and give her as much of you as she needs, and keep the rest for the one you really love.”

 

Ryouma glares, and bites again. "Girls are gross."

 

“The uncompromising wisdom of youth, I see.” Atobe taps Ryouma’s nose, then leans down to kiss him swiftly, nipping at his lip. He looks at the door, and pauses. “How soundproof are your walls?”

 

"…It's an old shrine," Ryouma wryly points out, but he doesn't exactly tell Atobe _no_ , not when he's warm and they're cuddled up really close in a pillow fort. "You _are_ noisy when you do it, though, Atobe-sempai." 

 

“And you love it,” Atobe points out, not embarrassed in the slightest. He raises an eyebrow, and murmurs, “If you don’t want me to make noise, I could always occupy my lips elsewhere.” Just because he hasn’t with Ryouma doesn’t mean he wouldn’t, and Tezuka is considerably less than fond of the act.

 

Ryouma's eyebrows raise, contemplative. " _You'd_ do that? I thought you just liked it when _I_ did that." 

 

"Reehneeh."

 

"Ah, no, Karupin. This is too adult of a mood for you," Ryouma grumbles, shooing him out of the pillow fort and to the floor.

 

“I,” Atobe says confidently, “have been told I’m quite excellent at it.” Perhaps not for a while, but he’s pretty sure the opinion stands. He shoves Ryouma onto his back, palming at the front of his shorts, feeling him start to fill out under his hand. Fortunately, his own mouth has grown since the last time he’d attempted this, and Ryouma is not the largest guy in the world. “Not since I was your age, though,” he admits with a roguish grin, and sets about kissing Ryouma senseless.

 

Ryouma figures he's had worse ideas about still doing things with Atobe when apparently the news is trying to follow his every move, so why the hell not?

 

Also, when he misses Kintarou, this kind of thing is really good. He likes the way Atobe kisses--usually, and right now is definitely one of those times. He muffles a groan into Atobe's mouth when he lurches up, grabbing at his hair to tug him down and kiss him harder. "I bet," he taunts between kisses, "that I taste better than you do."

 

A swift pinch to Ryouma’s rear is the best response to that, and Atobe follows it up with a biting tug to his lower lip before yanking down his shorts. “You need to learn some humility, little prince,” he says, laughter in his voice as he shoves up Ryouma’s shirt. “Also some discretion--why bite and suck your neck when I can do this?” He sets his mouth to one small pink nipple, laving it with his tongue, tugging on it with his teeth, giving him a taste of the kind of suck he’s working up to as his hand starts sliding down.

 

He usually makes an attempt to not be noisy, but when Atobe's mouth is on him like _that,_ Ryouma can't help it. His voice breaks a little, and he barely swallows down the whimpering noise that escapes when he arches up against the other boy's mouth, pulling on Atobe's hair. "B…because that's--ah, _Atobe-sempai_ , they're _sensitive_." Trying to hiss out that protest is easier said than done, and Ryouma just huffs instead, flopping down with an intense shiver. 

 

“That _is_ kind of the point.” Atobe rubs his thumb over the nipple he leaves behind, giving the other a quick suck before working downward. “Besides,” he breathes, getting Ryouma’s shorts entirely off and tossing them over his shoulder, “it’s so much lewder to know that I’ve marked you up here—” He nibbles, sucks on a spot on Ryouma’s inner thigh, a few inches away from his cock— “than anywhere else.” 

 

God, he hopes he hasn’t lost his touch. He’d been _good_ at this, he _knows_ it, even if his experience was somewhat...hasty, and not terribly broad. “I haven’t given you your reward for beating Yukimura yet.”

 

Atobe's right about one thing--it feels really, really lewd to have him down there, sucking on his skin and breathing on his cock. Ryouma shudders, shutting his eyes briefly when his cock twitches hard, and he _tries_ not to just yank on Atobe's hair and make him put his mouth on it already. "I could have lots of rewards," he eagerly agrees, his voice ragged around the edges. "If they're like this."

 

Atobe laughs, cheek pressed against Ryouma’s thigh, and leaves another mark there just for fun, licking and biting before moving to the other thigh. “Wait until we finally have our official match.” 

 

He turns his head, exhaling hot over the head of Ryouma’s cock, then dipping his head back down to nibble and lick at another bit of upper thigh, close enough this time that his hair brushes against the length of Ryouma’s cock, teasing, never a full touch.

 

Ryouma is pretty sure he's going to die.

 

He'd whine and whimper a lot more about that, but he _has_ to keep quiet, he _has to._ He groans all the same, though, letting his head roll back onto a pillow, his own breath hot and uneven when his legs splay, openly needy, skin twitching underneath every bite. His cock drips over his stomach, every breath making it harder to just stay quiet when it just _throbs_. "Atobe-semmmpaiii…you're not being _fair_." 

 

Atobe’s hands come up to those smooth, slender thighs, spreading them apart as far as they’ll go (pretty far, the kid is flexible) and effectively pinning him down before he dips his head, flicking the tip of his tongue over the head of Ryouma’s cock, tonguing the slit for a moment before asking, husky and low, “Have you ever had a blowjob before, Ryouma? No? Then be prepared to be awed by my prowess.” Then he sinks down, taking half of it into his mouth at once, cheeks hollowing in suction as his tongue swirls. Yes, he _does_ remember this.

 

At the last second, Ryouma thinks to just clamp a hand over his own mouth, his breath huffing hot and ragged and _loud_ against it, but not as loud as the squeaking, eager moan that escapes when Atobe's mouth is _on_ his cock. 

 

His eyes actually roll back into his head a bit. That feels _good_ , all hot and slick and wet, and if he wasn't pinned down by strong hands, he'd easily be arching up and wanting _more_. Ryouma still squirms, panting through his fingers, wanting more of that tongue against him and those lips and _everything_ , yes _please_. Why didn't he get this kind of a reward _sooner?_

 

Shit, Atobe probably should not be liking this as much as he is.

 

It had always seemed to be something of a chore before, either because the receiver wasn’t properly impressed and grateful, or because he’d gotten frustrated when it wasn’t _perfect_. This is much better; Ryouma is trembling like a leaf in the wind, he’s thrashing, and the way he has to cover his own mouth is quite charming--and flattering, but that’s to be expected.

 

Encouraged, Atobe delves farther still, working Ryouma’s slender cock between his lips, managing to get all the way down before pulling back to bob on the head and the first few inches, then pulling off entirely. His hand comes up to squeeze and stroke as his mouth wanders, nipping at those pale thighs again, fingertips dragging through the coarse dark hairs at the base of his cock. “You’re certainly more Japanese here than I am,” he murmurs, amused, and refrains from mentioning that Tezuka is the same, sleek straight hairs all nestled neatly together. At least Ryouma seems to enjoy being touched here more than Tezuka does.

 

Ryouma honestly can't decide if he should be grateful for that reprieve or desperate for more of Atobe's mouth all over again, and so he just settles for a whimper, flopping his head back when his chest heaves. His thighs twitch when Atobe's mouth is on them again, his toes slowly curling, and he reaches one fumbling hand down to grab at Atobe's hair again, mindless and needy. Desperate. Yeah, he settles for desperate. "You _can't_ stop for too long," he begs. "Please, Atobe-sempai, I'm gonna die." 

 

_I knew I was still good at this!_

 

“Since it’s you’re reward,” Atobe verbally relents, quietly pleased at the way Ryouma is responding, “I suppose I can indulge you. Make some more of those sweet noises for me.”

 

With that, Atobe curls the first two fingers of his hand around the base, gently squeezing and stroking as he takes the rest in his mouth, bobbing and sucking, automatically looking for the edge of foreskin to dip his tongue into, but no, Ryouma’s is like his own. Instead, he drags his tongue up the underside, flicking it against the bottom of the head, alternating the swift licks with a few hard quick sucks, urged on by the hand in his hair. _This is what you get for calling me Atobe-sempai in that tone of voice all the time._

 

Scratch that, he's going to die either way.

 

That's good, though, because every lick just makes him twist and squirm and if he could somehow have _more_ of Atobe's mouth, he would. The noises Atobe's making are good, too--slick and messy and it turns Ryouma on to know that he's not the _only_ one that makes those noises when he's got his mouth on a dick. 

 

He shivers from head to toe at that thought, and his nails scrape against Atobe's scalp in another, needy tug. It's not hard, he's too shaky for that, but it feels so _good_ that he can't _help it_. 

 

The same goes for keeping his voice down, apparently. 

 

Ryouma clamps his other hand down over his mouth again, but it doesn't help _that_ much to keep down his whines and whimpers and then the sudden, brokenly ragged noises when he's close and then coming, his back arching and hips lurching up when he spills hot and slick. 

 

Ah.

 

Right.

 

Atobe works hard, thinking of steel traps and his own iron determination, and barely, just _barely_ manages to keep from retching or gagging. It isn’t the taste--that’s fine, slightly bitter and salty at once and tasting more of skin than anything else--but the texture, and he swears he can feel it on his tongue long after he manages to swallow.

 

But with the noises Ryouma makes, with the way he shivers and clings and whines, Atobe can’t help but feel incredibly pleased with himself. 

 

He moves up, taking Ryouma into his arms, stroking and petting his hair. “You,” he murmurs, “are nice to have like that. So responsive.”

 

Ryouma just sort of…groan-whimpers- _breathes_ for a moment, burying himself against Atobe, nuzzling mindlessly into his neck, throwing his arms around his shoulders and shivering with every weirdly lingering aftershock. 

 

"Atobe-sempai is _good_ at that." Or so he can assume, judging by how he feels even afterwards. "You can do that more often. Fair trade." 

 

It probably shouldn’t please Atobe _quite_ so much to get that kind of affirmation. Amusing, he thinks, that Tezuka’s consistent, firm refusal of any attention of the kind had apparently made an impact on his ego in that regard, at least. “It will quite literally be my pleasure,” he murmurs, hands sliding around Ryouma and tugging him close. That reminds him of how painfully neglected his own cock is, and he turns Ryouma around, spooning up behind him and grinding against his ass. “Just give me a second,” he grunts, sliding his cock forward between those pretty pale thighs. “Won’t take long.” He’s already so on-edge from the noises Ryouma has been making that he’s dripping and flushed, nibbling on Ryouma’s ear when he thrusts forward.

 

Oh, _that's_ nice, too.

 

If his last orgasm hadn't been so _good_ , Ryouma's pretty sure he'd be hard again. He likes the way Atobe feels behind him like this, much bigger and easily wrapping around him, and he likes the way that his cock fits so well between his thighs, thick and hot and throbbing, rubbing against sensitive, bruised skin. Ryouma shivers, squirms back, and reaches one hand down, his thumb rubbing over the head of Atobe's cock and coming away slick and sticky. "You feel good like this, too, Atobe-sempai," he murmurs, sighing when he wriggles, squeezing his thighs around Atobe's cock.

 

That little touch of Ryouma’s hand is all Atobe needs, apparently. He gasps when he comes, burying his face into Ryouma’s neck, kissing and sucking despite knowing how _stupid_ it is to leave marks there after this--but Ryouma is sweet and warm, strong and vibrant, and his hands dig into the boy’s hips to yank him closer as he spills messy and wet over Ryouma’s thighs. 

 

Best of all, he doesn’t have to immediately pull away and take care of Ryouma after this, not the way he does after he fucks someone. Instead, he curls around the boy’s smaller form, nuzzling contentedly as his arms tighten. “You don’t feel half bad yourself.”

 

Ryouma settles back with a long sigh, practically vibrating what with how pleased and content and _warm_ he is. "You can stay, if you want," he mumbles, flopping his head back against Atobe's shoulder. "But you have to do some of my homework later, if you wanna stay in the pillow fort."

 

Atobe laughs, warm breath tickling the fine hairs on Ryouma’s neck. “Paying rent, ahn? It would be my first time. Sounds intriguing.” He’ll probably need to leave soon, but that’s no reason not to enjoy this while he can. More quietly, he adds, “You were honestly magnificent at the finals. I loved watching you.”

 

"I won because you said I was hot. Pretty sure." 

 

“An effective remedy, to be sure.” Atobe nips at Ryouma’s ear. “You _are_ hot. You know that.”

 

"Yeah," Ryouma says, unabashedly, "I know. Kintarou says I look like a movie star."

 

“It _is_ nice to be adored, isn’t it?” Atobe asks without the slightest hint of irony or sarcasm. He nearly says something--he and Tezuka have spoken so much during their Alps trip about whether Kintarou was smart enough, sensible enough--but on a hunch, lets his eyes glaze over in that way he does when he tries to see, really _see_ something about a person. He blinks.

 

“Oh. Like that for him, is it?”

 

"Huh? Mm." Ryouma burrows down into pillows and sheets a bit more. "He's good at tennis, it's hard not to like him a lot." 

 

Atobe almost points out that Ryouma’s ears are flushed pink, but refrains at the last moment. He feels delightfully relaxed for the first time today, and he’d rather enjoy that than tease the brat, at least for the time being. “Up,” he says instead, with a swift pinch. “Or it’ll dry on you, and I’ll have to hear your complaining again.”

 

"Nnh, but Atobe-sempai, you're _warm_." Ryouma swiftly rolls over, fastening himself to the other boy, and burying his face down into his chest. "You can just stay, that would be better."

 

Yeah, Ryouma’s right. This is better.

 

It’s good enough that Atobe forgets things like the trouble he’s in and responsibilities, at least for five minutes.

 

Or eight hours, until the sun comes up.

 

“Oi! Brat!” Nanjirou knocks on the door, tries the handle, and finds it barricaded. “Fine, starve to death, I’m eating all of Nanako’s food myself!”

 

“Shit,” Atobe mutters, coming awake (and sticky) at the sound.

 

Ryouma groans, and butts his head underneath Atobe's chin, all four limbs either around or on him, depending on how he looks at it. Karupin is also on them, perched right above their heads on a pillow. "Want breakfast?" he mumbles, stretching slowly. "I don't think my dad would mind _that_ much…"

 

Atobe yawns. “He can’t possibly be worse than my father,” he says with a shrug. “Mm, good morning, Karupin-sama.” His stomach makes a fervent noise, reminding him that he’d had nearly nothing to eat the day before, then topped it off by swallowing something that usually makes him ill. “But if it bothers you, I’ll sneak out the window. It wouldn’t be my first time.”

 

"Atobe-sempai, the cat burglar." Ryouma slowly starts to wiggle way, grimacing. "Maybe…bath first though. Ah, so gross. Can we go play tennis after this, or do you have to go do weird girl-dating things?"

 

“Ah yes, I’m going to pick up a stranger for some sort of breakfast date. Scandal at the house of pancakes.” Atobe runs a finger up his own stomach in distaste. “Definitely bath, breakfast, then tennis. Ah, we probably shouldn’t play at my house until Father is out of town again, though.”

 

"There are public courts." Ryouma slowly rolls out of the bed, destroying the pillow fort in the process. "I'll run the bath, you can socialize with Karupin. Maybe Nanako is doing a Japanese style breakfast today…"

 

Atobe’s stomach flips over at the thought. “Delightful,” he mutters and turns instead to Karupin, dangling a stray thread in front of the cat and nearly getting his fingers torn off in Karupin’s excitement. He catches sight of Ryouma’s phone, and calls, “Do you mind if I text your captain from your phone?” The problem with his father buying him so many phones, of course, is that his father can _access_ all of them if he so chooses. Usually he doesn’t care, but right now, there’s no risk Atobe wants to take.

 

"Go for it," Ryouma calls from the bathroom over the sound of running water. "He usually doesn't answer, though, Tezuka-buchou is weird about texts." He doesn't know why he's telling Atobe that; Atobe probably knows better even than he does.

 

**To: Tezuka-buchou**

**Subject: it is I**

**Ryouma let me use his phone. Just checking on you. I’d come to see you in person if I could. I’m sorry I’m so sorry.**

 

“No worries, he does read them,” he says, considerably more cheerful-sounding than he feels. “He just doesn’t respond. Do you have any roses for the bathwater, or are we doing this like we’re camping?”

 

"Atobe-sempai," Ryouma says wearily, "you're so weird. I hope you don't like the water really hot, because I don't." 

 

**To: Echizen Ryouma**

**Subject: Re: it is I**

**k**

 

"Ah, so fast." Ryouma's head pokes out of the bathroom at the sound of his phone, blinking. "What did you say to make him do that?" 

 

Atobe is too busy sighing dramatically to answer for a long minute. Tezuka _understands_. That single letter is such a relief, more effort than it would be for anyone else, and Atobe has to fight the urge to keep texting, knowing it wouldn’t help and would just make Tezuka uncomfortable and confused. 

 

Instead, he stands and stretches, making his way to the bathroom and delicately dipping a toe into the shockingly tiny tub. Marvelous, it’s like something out of a historical recreation. “This temperature is fine,” he assures Ryouma. It’s not like the baths at his own house, of course, but he knows better than to demand that _everywhere_. He doesn’t mind roughing it once in a while. It works to get the sticky off, and that’s all he needs.

 

"So is everything okay with Tezuka-buchou?" Ryouma presses, sliding in without hesitation at the other end of the tub, and dunking his head under in the next instant. He comes up looking like a drenched cat, and shakes the water out of his hair subsequently. 

 

"Reehneeeh."

 

"Oh, yeah, sorry." He reaches out a damp hand to stroke down Karupin's back, thoroughly wetting him in the process. "He likes it when you pet him when you're wet." 

 

“Your cat is weird,” Atobe says, but pets the strange beast all the same. “Yes, Tezuka’s fine. Upset at the situation, but he’s not angry at anyone, I think.” He hesitates, then gives Ryouma’s shoulder a squeeze. “We’re not breaking up, even if I’m going to be seen with someone else. Don’t worry.” He’s not even sure why he thinks Ryouma will be worried, but it’s very important somehow that he doesn’t.

 

Ryouma eyeballs him, but nods. "Good. You can't break up with Tezuka-buchou, that would be really bad. He likes you a lot." 

 

"Reeehneeh." 

 

Ryouma dumps a handful of water on Karupin's head. 

 

Atobe almost corrects him--that’s the wrong L-word--but lets it go. Ryouma’s still _so_ young, their current activities notwithstanding. He leans back as far as he can get without getting his hair wet, and scrubs at his skin, feeling the last of the mess float away. “It’s not going to happen. Things between us are…” he pauses, then dumps some water on the cat. “Permanent. That’s the closest word.”

 

"Reehneeh."

 

"Good. It should be permanent." Ryouma pauses, thinking, and scrubs idly at his hair. "Why can't you just go back to England and take him with you? Then you can play tennis together and do whatever you want." 

 

“Are you kidding? England is worse. England, America--they speculate over there. Oh, it’s fine to be _other_ if you’re in entertainment, but in sports, business, finance? That’s a…” He frowns, thinking of an expression, and switches to English. “Good Ol’ Boys club. Not to mention the violence.” Not to mention he isn’t entirely certain that none of that violence would be calculated, and directed at Tezuka in a “random” event meant to remove him.

 

"That's so _dumb_ , though," Ryouma sighs out, stretching out one foot to poke at Atobe with his toes. "Tezuka-buchou would hate that, though, so I get it. Maybe if I go over first and stuff, it won't be as bad later on…"

 

“He’d hate people talking about it most of all.” Atobe catches that foot, running a hand up Ryouma’s leg to give his thigh a squeeze. “Could you handle it, do you really think? Have reporters and friends and strangers on the street shouting at you, asking about whose dick has been in you this week? Harassing anyone you chose to be seen with? Sponsors dropping you because you’re a pervert? Loaded questions for a 12-year-old, but you’re nothing if not precocious.”

 

"If they want to know whose dick has been in me, I'll tell them," Ryouma bluntly answers, his shoulders heaving in a shrug. "I'm not gonna _flaunt it_ , that's dumb, but I don't see any reason to lie, either. If I lose sponsors, I'll just get new ones. I'm good at tennis, that's all I'll make them care about." 

 

There’s no use arguing. If anyone can do it, Atobe knows that Ryouma can. Atobe sighs, advises, “Don’t grow up too fast,” and dunks the brat for good measure.

 

~

 

With it being the last few days of summer vacation, it's easy to still be something of a hikikomori. 

 

His parents have long given up on the task of attempting to make him be social, even when he's been gone before and after Nationals. Tezuka is thankful for that, because he _really_ doesn't want to talk to anyone right now. Surely, they know what's been going on as well, but at least they aren't embarrassing enough to _talk about it_...

 

"But have you _seen_ the news?" Oishi had pressed briefly over the phone. "About Atobe, and Echizen? Are you sure it's wise to--"

 

"Atobe can handle it." 

 

 _I can't get involved_ are the unspoken words, and it's better not to say that at all, because Tezuka is certain they'll come out panicky. 

 

Giving Atobe distance is easier said than done, but very, very necessary. That one text message from him--from Echizen's phone, damn it all--is something of a balm to his nerves, but not _that_ much when Tezuka keeps thinking of scenarios when it could have _easily_ been him that everyone found out about and--

 

"Kunimitsu, you have company!"

 

"Tell them to go away," Tezuka immediately, crossly calls back, huddling up into a ball even further behind his recently library haul. 

 

"That's not going to happen, honey! Oh, come here, sweetheart, you've been through _so_ much, haven't you?" 

 

Tezuka exhales an exasperated sigh, shuts his book, and hauls himself to his feet to leave his room. "Kaasan, I told you, it's strange when you're so familiar with my fri--"

 

Oh. 

 

Never mind. 

 

He swallows hard. "Keigo."

 

Atobe looks up, but doesn’t let go of Tezuka Ayana, keeping her folded in his arms as he clings just slightly, just enough to take the miserable edge off. “Ah, Kunimitsu, good to see you. Kaachan, please forgive me, I forgot to give you the present I had for you.” He pulls away, and reaches into the pocket of his coat, pulling out a small wrapped box. “I just thought, well, you didn’t get to see the match, and the closest thing would probably be a tennis bracelet!” He beams as he hands it over, but his eyes stray to Tezuka, and the smile wavers.

 

Ayana sighs long and hard, and promptly grabs Atobe back with all the strength that her tiny form belies. " _You_ are precious, and I will appreciate your gift thoroughly once you allow me to hug you a bit longer."

 

" _Kaasan_ …" Tezuka attempts, hesitantly wavering some paces away still. "He doesn't want you all over him like that…" 

 

"He certainly does. _This_ son of mine needs a mother's love." 

 

Tezuka shrugs, defeated. He supposes it's true that Atobe doesn't look exactly _upset_ that his mother is cuddling him like that, but, well…that would imply that he's really able to look Atobe in the eye right then and be a good judge. 

 

It’s true enough, what Ayana says, and Atobe firmly buries his face in her shoulder for a long minute, breathing in deep. But then again, he thinks in chagrin, being able to see Tezuka isn’t much less of a balm to the nerves.

 

He pulls back, squeezes her hands, and kisses her on the cheek. “I’ll be out soon, ne, Kaachan? If it’s not too much trouble, could I perhaps have some of your special udon?” Not something he would ever admit to craving, but the way she makes it is just...better, somehow. “I’ll make sure Kunimitsu eats as well.”

 

"You," Ayana very firmly says, patting him gently on the cheek, "are such a good boy. Get that child out of his room at some point, he hasn't seen the sun in days."

 

"That's how I like it," Tezuka dryly remarks.

 

"So gloomy! Keigo-kun, be the sunshine in his life. Go on, then, both of you." 

 

Tezuka shrugs helplessly, and gestures broadly back to his bedroom. "Come on, sunshine of my life." 

 

“So romantic, my moon and stars!” Atobe is pretty sure he can get away with the romance by being That Ridiculous Foreigner, especially at this house, and especially when it’s just Tezuka’s mother.

 

As soon as the door shuts behind them, he latches onto Tezuka, grabbing him in a fierce hug and holding him there. “I’m so sorry,” he says quietly, face buried in Tezuka’s shoulder even when he’s on his toes. “I never meant for you to get dragged into this, I’m sorry.”

 

Tezuka breathes in deep, rocks back on his heels, and gives up.

 

His arms wrap tightly around Atobe, easily lifting him with the force of it. "That," he quietly admits, burying his face down into the other boy's hair, "was the worst thing ever, and it wasn't even _me_ that they were accusing. That can't _ever_ happen, Keigo." 

 

“It won’t. It won’t _ever_ , I swear it.” Atobe squeezes so tightly it should be uncomfortable, and it still doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Fortunately, Tezuka is a lot stronger and more solid than most people think, and that gives him license to squeeze. “I’ll never let you go through that. I’m taking care of it.”

 

The heap of pillows that serves as a reading spot is easy enough to flop back down onto, Atobe hauled immediately into his lap before Tezuka can even settle down. "How? You're father isn't going to…no, you wouldn't be here if he wanted you to stop seeing me." That makes his chest ache, and he's probably holding onto the other boy too tightly. "What about Echizen?" 

 

Atobe nestles firmly into Tezuka’s lap, trying very hard not to think about what he would have done if his father _had_ told him to stop seeing Tezuka. Ah, no, that’s not something he wants to deal with. “Never change your behavior because of a scandal, Kunimitsu,” he says, nuzzling into Tezuka’s chest. “It’s just proof that you believe in your own guilt. No, it’s easy enough. I’ll be publicly seen with a woman, some lovely married thing too old for me, and they’ll put her next to Echizen. It’ll make it terribly easy for me to laugh that whole thing off as nonsense. My father has...silenced the initial source. Some new servant blabbed.”

 

It sounds ridiculous--all of it, really--and not something that he _ever_ thought he'd even run parallel to, but…ugh. At least it _does_ sound handled, in a way, even if Tezuka has a headache if he thinks about it for too long. "Maybe you should just start coming over here more, then," he mutters. "It isn't as if my mother isn't in love with you."

 

Atobe grimaces. “I’ll have to borrow more peasant clothes from Shishido, ugh. But at least your bed is comfortable, and Kaachan is always perfect.” He frowns for a moment, thinking. “Does she know? About us, I mean.”

 

"Considering I told her, yes, I'm going to assume that she knows. She _is_ the one that reminded my father, very recently, that he broke off his arranged marriage with a perfectly nice girl to be with her instead, so he apparently has no room to be annoyed with me," Tezuka dryly says. "Which I do find convenient, sunshine of my life."

 

Atobe finds himself suddenly blinking very rapidly, and suffering a sudden inability to swallow around the tightness in his throat. “Your mother,” he says firmly, “is a gift from whatever gods you believe in. To me.” He thunks his forehead against Tezuka’s shoulder. “Father likes you. I heard him telling Darryl to keep you out of the media at all costs. Apparently you’re a ‘grounding influence’ on me.”

 

"Are you sure? I have yet to teach you to build that bookshelf." God, that's a weight off his shoulders that Tezuka wasn't even aware of, though. He was very certain that Atobe's father disliked him _thoroughly,_ but…maybe he had made a better impression on him than he'd previously assumed. Tezuka exhales the breath that he had been holding, and sags backwards, holding Atobe firmly to his chest. "My mother wants to feed you until you pop and then do it again. I warned her that you didn't like Japanese food, but now you've encouraged her." 

 

“She’s actually a _good_ cook,” Atobe says, “not just repeating the same recipe her great-great grandparents used to make.” He can feel himself going boneless as well, responding to Tezuka’s relaxation on an almost molecular level. “You don’t mind too much? About the girl?”

 

Tezuka just groans. "Please. If anything, it's a relief. It'll work, won't it? As an excuse? That's all I care about, for both your sake and Echizen's." 

 

“It’ll work,” Atobe assures him. “They don’t have any proof, so it’s just wild speculation. The good news is that foreign media, especially in England, is going through a phase where they think it’s trashy to speculate on the sexual habits of the underage, so they’ll do nothing without proof. As long as it stays without proof and in Japan, it’ll blow over as soon as I pick up this woman.” He brushes a hand through Tezuka’s hair. “You don’t mind if I sleep with her?”

 

"Keigo," Tezuka says, very bluntly and firmly, "I _don't_ care. Anything to make this go away." It's odd, probably, that he's never felt particularly threatened by any of Atobe's other 'acquisitions' (though the idea of someone else coming onto Atobe turns his stomach), but…what's the point of feeling that way, anyway? Realistically speaking, there's _going_ to eventually be a woman in Atobe's life. "Use 'ore-sama' in bed, maybe it'll turn her off." 

 

“Preposterous. How could that turn anyone off?” Atobe gives Tezuka’s nose a swift nip. “She wouldn’t understand, anyway. She’s some European supermodel my father’s picked out. I...I’m meeting her tonight.” This is as good a time as any to stop saying _I have to_ and start simply stating what he’ll do, he thinks.

 

"Ah." So much for offering Atobe a chance to stay over. Even if Tezuka thinks he's remarkably tolerant of all of this, he's still somewhat annoyed by the idea that he can't simply curl up with his boyfriend for the evening when he'd really, really like to. "Well, if you do end up turning her off and ruining her night, my mother will welcome you back here with open arms."

 

Atobe runs a finger down the front of Tezuka’s neck, dipping into the V of his open first button. “Just your mother?” he asks, looking up into Tezuka’s face. “Or is it with something else open that you’ll welcome me back yourself?”

 

Tezuka just _looks_ at him, a mix put out and (sort of) affectionate. "It's too disgusting to just _say that_. We can talk about how I can leave a window unlocked for you, though." 

 

“Ahn, but I like it when you’re disgusting.” 

 

There’s a moment when he almost says more. He almost warns Tezuka-- _you know it’s always going to be like this, as long as you’re with me, you can get out, it’s only going to get worse once I’m out of school, you’re seeing the most freedom I’m ever going to have_ \--but the urge passes. Instead, he just makes a face, plucking at the borrowed sweatshirt. “At least you’re never as bad as I feel in these.”

 

Tezuka gives him a consoling pat on the back, but even he has to fight down a snort of laughter. "It _really_ doesn't suit you. I could give you something of mine, it's still too big but it's not quite as…well." He's no fashionista, but ah. Some things, Atobe just shouldn't ever been seen in. It's too weird.

 

“Too _long_ ,” Atobe corrects. “I’m more than a match for you in breadth, you know.” He sighs, then shakes his head. “Don’t take this as a compliment to your fashion sense, but even your clothes would allow my glorious self to shine through. Only by truly dampening my beauty can I be sure of anonymity. At least I have a ready supply of these, though tragic.”

 

In reply, Tezuka just settles for rolling him over and pulling his sweatshirt up and over his face in hopes of suffocating him. "Ah, yes. Such beauty dampening. You and those thick bones."

 

Atobe flails, shoving ineffectually at Tezuka’s chest. “Let me up! Ugh, all I can smell is bad Japanese cheese, this is worse than torture!”

 

Tezuka glances over at the wall, bored. "I can't recognize the wailing of peasants, sorry." 

 

Atobe lets out an indignant shriek, finally managing to claw his way out of the appalling thing, tossing it to the side in revulsion. “Just...burn that, will you? I’ll make my excuses and buy him a new one--it’s Shishido’s, and I can only hope he’ll be grateful for whatever improvement I purchase him.”

 

"I'm sure," Tezuka dryly retorts, and briefly hauls himself to his feet to pull one of his own sweatshirts out of his closet. "Here--too long or not, at least it's not going to smell like cheese." _That's_ just bizarre. 

 

Atobe gives him a suspicious look, and sniffs the shirt. “Whose is this? Why do you have it? You don’t wear sweats. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

 

"…Keigo," Tezuka deadpans, plopping right back down next to him, "have you _never_ had a day where you didn't want to get dressed properly? This does occur naturally, I assure you, especially among injured hikikomori." 

 

Atobe stares, hands fisting into the offending garment. “But that’s what silken dressing gowns are _for_.”

 

"Not for us peasants, I'm afraid."

 

Silently, Atobe makes his plans for Tezuka’s next birthday. Out loud, he mutters, “Very well. But if I ever see someone else’s clothes in your closet, Kunimitsu, I shall be very put out. I’m aware of the double standard, and I’m not certain I care.”

 

"Considering that's never going to happen, by all means. As you've pointed out on every single occasion, I am made of noodles." Tezuka leans in closer. "But I have _other_ sweats. How much more do you want to cringe about it?" 

 

Atobe holds up a hand, admitting defeat. “I think I’ve seen all I can handle for today, thank you. Perhaps you can inflict your loungewear upon me another time.”

 

"You could use some loungewear," Tezuka mutters underneath his breath, and hesitates a moment before reaching out, grabbing that hand to pull Atobe closer again. "If she's the worst ever and you decide to skip out, I really _can_ leave a window unlocked."

 

Just as he’s about to pontificate that of _course_ it will be fine, no woman could resist his glorious charms, Atobe’s words catch in his throat. Instead, he nods, a little hesitant, a lot grateful. “I...will probably not be able to stay away,” he admits. “If I don’t come, I’ll come tomorrow.”

 

 _Oh, thank god_ is the reply that Tezuka really can't let leave his tongue, and he settles for just nodding, tucking Atobe's head underneath his chin when he flops back again. "There isn't much of summer vacation left. You might as well." 

 

Atobe groans slightly, hands fisting into Tezuka’s shirt to drag at him. “Don’t remind me. Are you having a graduation ceremony? I have to set about choosing next year’s captain from two rather dismal offerings.”

 

"At some point--at least Seigaku's captain for next year has been decided," Tezuka wryly notes, letting himself be tugged at will. "Hyoutei next year should be…hmmm. What's the word."

 

“A battle to the death?” Atobe suggests gloomily. “They’re both good players, but one has no confidence and the other has no people skills. Ah, no, if I make it a battle to the death Hiyoshi will definitely win. He has skills and no conscience.”

 

"'Disaster' was the word I was looking for, but you are far more an optimist than I. Sure, a battle to the death then. Pick the neurotic one, it'll be funny." 

 

“You’re just saying that because _your_ last captain decided it would be funny to pick the neurotic one with no people skills.”

 

"It _was_ funny. I'm hilarious and my captaining skills are, too."

 

Atobe snorts, then tries to actually imagine Ootori as a captain, and cringes. “Why can’t I clone myself? I can buy the school, squish it up into one hybrid middle-high, and just never stop being captain. Ah, I’ll buy a college as well.” On the off-chance he’s allowed to keep playing tennis in college.

 

"So you want to turn Hyoutei into Rikkai. Sounds unpleasant, and also, unlikely. Create the illusion of a good arts program while you're at it, then you're really set." 

 

"Boring carpenter-san! My _good_ son's udon is ready! Does he want to eat it surrounded by books and not love like you do?" 

 

"What have you done to my mother," Tezuka wearily asks. 

 

“What I do to literally everyone I meet,” Atobe assures them. “I made her furious that not everyone she knows is me. Yes, Kaachan! We’ll be right out!”

 

He stands, dragging Tezuka up with him, made easier by the fact that Tezuka is, as usual, possessed of the weight of a small bird. “Come eat with me. It’ll make her love me even more.”

 

"I'm not sure she _needs_ to do that," Tezuka protests, but the force of nature that is Atobe Keigo makes it rather difficult to argue. "You've already made her happy enough that you like her cooking."

 

“And we can’t have her happy?” Atobe asks, laughing. “Come on, we’ll sit around the--do you have a dinner table? Or just one of those delightful blanket things?”

 

"Kotatsu. But you're going to pass out if we bring that out, so you're not allowed to have it right now," Tezuka firmly tells him, giving into his demands and opening the door. He may or may not drag said kotatsu into his room later, though, if Atobe returns. "Personally, I enjoy the slot in my door that allows them to feed me like I'm in a dungeon, but…"

 

Atobe almost laughs, but looks on a whim.

 

“You’re _serious_ ,” he deadpans. “She actually feeds you like that? For what offense? Never mind, you probably love it. You probably put it in yourself, my delightful carpenter.” Even if Tezuka’s family _knows_ , apparently, Atobe still drops his hand when they enter the main part of the house.

 

"You are going to sit and _eat_." Ayana is immediately a swarm upon them, grabbing Atobe first and steering him to the dinner table. She is, of course, wearing his gift. "You look so pale, Keigo-chan--"

 

"Ah, we're at _-chan_ now."

 

"You hush, Kunimitsu, I'm talking to my good son. Listen, Keigo-chan, you need to eat and if you're still hungry afterwards, I'm going to feed you again. Are you going to be spending the night? I have extra pillows and blankets, and I assure you, you won't be interrogated this time." 

 

Tezuka merely rolls his eyes. "Kaasan--"

 

"You listen, Kunimitsu, you're going to take care of this boy when he's over here."

 

"I usually do." She's in _rare_ form today.

 

Atobe pats her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “No one takes care of me better than you, Kaachan,” he assures her, basking in the love like a plant that has been kept indoors for far too long only to finally see the sun. Yes, such a flowery analogy is perfect, he’s certain. “I wish I could spend the night, but alas, complications and commitments elsewhere interfere.” 

 

Just now, he sort of wishes he _could_ just run away, elope, never to be seen again.

 

But that’s the kind of life that seems to be reserved for those who own more than one pair of sweatpants.

 

Ayana gives a long, dramatic sigh. "Do you see this perfection, Kunimitsu?"

 

"I usually am privy to it."

 

"Are you _sure_ he's kind enough for you, Keigo-chan? Ah, I made sure to get you black tea this time, I know you aren't the most fond of green." 

 

One of these days, Tezuka wryly thinks, Atobe is going to sort of _meld_ to his mother. 

 

Atobe’s face lights up at the tea, and he takes a long, slow inhale through his nose, breathing in perfection before his first sip. “Ah, god….this is true delight. My darling Kaachan, unless you tell me you’re fed up with that husband of yours, I can find no one more suited to myself than Kunimitsu, no matter how dour he may get.”

 

Ayana shrugs helplessly. "I _do_ know how that feels."

 

"Please don't start talking about your unlikely whirlwind romance with Otousan," Tezuka deadpans, spinning a few noodles around his chopsticks. 

 

"Kunimitsu _can_ be a charming child at times. It's just when you least expect it…does he still cry when he has to speak in public?"

 

"Please start talking about your unlikely whirlwind romance with Otousan." 

 

Atobe is nearly on the floor, both from the difficulty of holding in his laughter and the absolute delight he feels at those words. 

 

Only a text message’s buzz against his leg manages to kill the smile on his face, which turns to an unhappy sigh when he reads it. 

 

He takes a last slurp of the udon, swallowing the last noodle in his bowl before standing and giving her, of all people, a proper Japanese bow. “My deepest apologies, beloved Kaachan, but it looks like I’m needed elsewhere.” His hand might find its way to Tezuka’s shoulder, squeezing harder than he means to.

 

"You come here," Ayana demands, and promptly wraps Atobe up in a fierce hug, picking him up with the force of it and unknowingly mirroring her son's own actions from earlier in the process, no matter her height. "Whenever you're done being busy, come back over here and I will feed you until you can't move. You've gotten skinny, I already have one skinny son." 

 

"Let him go, Kaasan," Tezuka mutters, setting down his chopsticks as he climbs to his feet. "I'll walk you out, Keigo." That's the least awkward thing to do, he's pretty sure.

 

Atobe gives Ayana a last squeeze, then promptly flops his head onto Tezuka’s shoulder as they make for the door. “You’re the perfect height for this. For the love of god, stop growing immediately. If I tell you how perfect you are again, will you stay this way?”

 

"I can try." Tezuka slides an arm around the other boy's waist, and gently tugs him closer when they reach the door. "I don't know, though. Being taller than you is all sorts of entertaining." 

 

Atobe leans up, looking over Tezuka’s shoulder to make sure they’re alone, and nipping at his earlobe. “But Kunimitsu,” he purrs, “this makes it so much more difficult to have you up against the wall. You want to limit me further?”

 

Tezuka opens his mouth, then shuts it again, hesitating for a moment before allowing his knees to wobble…just slightly. "Keigo," he quietly warns, "you do _not_ have time to finish what you're starting right now."

 

A flash of disappointment flashes across Atobe’s face. Then, he brushes the backs of his fingertips over Tezuka’s cheek. “Later,” he promises, eyes dark with ideas. Then he pulls away with a visible effort, and makes his way out to the car that is, of course, already waiting outside.

 


	30. Fuji & Yuuta, Yagyuu & Niou

A text message that Yuuta is around and receptive never comes. There are a few others from Mizuki over the course of the next few days.

 

**Monday**

**To: Fuji (the male one)**

**Subject: Timing**

**Not today. Definitely.**

 

**Tuesday**

**To: Fuji (the male one)**

**Subject: Not today either**

**¯\\_(** **ツ** **)_/¯**

 

**Wednesday**

**To: Fuji (the male one)**

**Subject: Maybe tomorrow?**

**Think he’s coming around**

 

**Thursday**

**To: Fuji (the male one)**

**Subject: Nope**

**But I have a plan**

 

**Thursday**

**To: Fuji (the male one)**

**Subject: it didn’t work**

**He’s gone.**

 

It’s late, past midnight when a key turns slowly, clumsily in the lock of the Fuji town home. Footsteps shuffle heavily, arrhythmically down the hallway, pausing by an empty bedroom with posters from years ago still hung up before continuing down the hallway. A voice curses, and a couple of shoes belatedly hit the floor before the shuffling footsteps continue, more quietly, accompanied by a slow drag of fabric against one wall. 

 

The footsteps pause outside Fuji’s room, and a soft brush of fingertips sounds, followed by a quiet, hesitant knock and a louder, more forceful one. “Aniki,” comes the slurred voice. “Aniki.”

 

Fuji had a dream like this once, but most dreams starting with loud noises and Yuuta ended up poorly. 

 

That's probably why he bolts awake so quickly, no matter if he's bleary-eyed and not _quite_ processing. He stumbles out of bed, fumbling for a light, and then his door when his eyes refocus. 

 

Yuuta isn't _supposed_ to be home, is the thing. 

 

As half-awake as he is, Fuji doesn't entirely realize that quite yet. More than anything, it's just the fact that it's _Yuuta_ that's home, though he reeks of alcohol and doesn't seem entirely steady on his feet. "Yuuta, why are you…" _Drunk? Home? All of the above?_

 

Then, he remembers. 

 

Ah. Yes. Awkwardness. Fuji wavers in the doorway, glancing hesitantly up at his brother. "…Are you all right?" Even as awkward as it all is, suppressing that worry is, apparently, impossible. 

 

Yuuta grins, a wide, sloppy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh good. You’re home. You’re…”

 

Slowly, he sinks down into a wobbly crouch, rocking back onto his tailbone with a _thunk_. “Mizuki-san had wine. Ssso gross. I’m gross.”

 

"Ah." Fuji reaches down, gingerly taking Yuuta's hands. "Okay, but, you can't sit there. Let's go into my room." He's going to kill Mizuki. Was _this_ his plan after all? Where did he get wine, the pathetic useless piece of trash? 

 

Somehow, Yuuta makes it into his brother’s room, slumping against the Tezuka wall. “You don’t...you don’t hafta touch me. Make you sick. Grosssss.”

 

The fact that Yuuta _thinks_ that is enough to make him sick. Fuji frowns, and sinks down to his knees in front of his brother. "You don't make me sick, Yuuta," he quietly says, reaching out a hand to touch his cheek. "Listen, I'll put you to bed, and we can talk about this later."

 

Yuuta gulps a breath, and lays his head against his brother’s hand, eyes closing. “Dunno why it’s….so….ugh. Why d’you like him so much?” He gestures vaguely, since any direction of gesture will work to point out Tezuka in this room.

 

Oh, no. Why won't Yuuta just let him put him to bed already? Apparently, even drunk, his little brother never listens. "Because…" Fuji sighs, dragging his thumb over Yuuta's cheek. "Because Tezuka just has a way about him, I guess. Also, probably because I can never have him."

 

Yuuta looks around, as if somewhat convinced there will be more alcohol if he looks hard enough. “Talked to Neesan,” he mutters, toes wriggling against the floor. “She told me. ‘Bout you and her. To make me feel….not so….”

 

Fuji is going to murder his sister. "That wasn't anything," he firmly says, though his stomach twists into little knots. "But if she said it to make you feel less gross, that's good. You shouldn't feel bad, Yuuta. I'm not…I don't think you're a bad person or anything like that." 

 

“You think it’s wrong.” Yuuta blinks, and there’s something accusatory in his look that was just hurt, disgusted before. “Why?”

 

"…Because you're my little brother." Fuji shrugs helplessly, leaning back slightly. "The one thing I've always wanted to do is protect you, and if I was with you like that…I think--no, I _know_ I would just end up hurting you. Does that make sense?" 

 

“You fucked her.” Yuuta tries to hold eye contact, and winds up slumping farther to the left. “You’re too good for me. You know it. You think it. Yeah. I’m hurt _now_. Shit.” He’s going to throw up--no, the feeling passes, and he slumps entirely to the side, head thunking on the ground. Yuuta doesn’t notice. “You just don’t want me. Nothing to do with brother.”

 

"Yuuta, I was _ten_ , and if you think for one minute that I care about Neesan like I care about you--" Fuji sucks in a slow breath, shuts his eyes, and lurches forward again to firmly grab Yuuta by the shoulders. "I," he solemnly says, "am _trash_. I am literally the worst thing for you in the world. Please, _please_ don't make this about not wanting you, I can't…I've _never_ thought about you like that, and it's not because you wouldn't be perfect for someone else. It's because you're my _little brother_." 

 

“But I don’t _care_!” Yuuta moves suddenly, his hands fisting in his brother’s shirt. Even drunk, he’s far stronger, and it’s much easier than it should be to lift his brother off the ground when he surges up, holding him dangling in the air. “You’re perfect. I had to get _away_ from you--what if--w-w-what if…” His muscles slowly unclench, lowering Fuji to the ground when his breath comes in rough, angry sobs. “W-what if it never g-goes away?”

 

"Then it _doesn't_ , but it probably will, when you find someone that's actually _good for you_ ," Fuji insists. He should feel more shaken up about all of this, but Yuuta is so upset that he can't even process it. Instead, he reaches up, firmly dragging Yuuta down into a tight hug. "I still love you, Yuuta, _nothing_ is going to change that. I don't think you're gross, or sick, or anything like that, so it's _okay_." 

 

Yuuta gives up, shuddering as his head tips forward, thunking against his brother’s shoulder. His stomach churns even at the slight heat of Shuusuke, and he gulps at the air. “If--if it doesn’t gross you out--m-maybe--maybe if you tried, you’d _like_ it.” He hears the pleading note in his own voice, and it makes him sick.

 

"Yuuta," Fuji gently says, steering him away from the Tezuka wall and to his bed, because what else _can_ he do at this point, "I'm not going to do that. Come on, you just need to go to sleep, you're _so_ drunk." 

 

“Let me.” Yuuta reaches up, fisting a hand in his brother’s hair. In a sudden, startling, striking moment of clarity, he _knows_ \--he could grab Shuusuke, pin him down, take everything he ever wanted, and no one would stop him. Shuusuke would try, but he’d give in. 

 

Somehow, just knowing is enough to make Yuuta snatch his hand back as if his brother’s hair were fire. “Bucket—” he gasps out, and manages to grab his brother’s trash can, retching up the contents of his stomach over the side of the bed.

 

" _That's_ karma," Fuji cheerfully says even though his heart is thudding out of his chest. He sidesteps away, grabbing a towel thrown over the back of his desk chair, and then the back of Yuuta's shirt, hauling him upright and stuffing the towel into his face when he sits his brother down onto the edge of his bed. "Wipe your face, sit there, and _don't_ grab me like that again."

 

Yuuta nods shakily, scrubbing at his face with the towel. “You used to talk about it,” he rasps, feeling slightly saner. Maybe that’s just the pain in his throat, bringing him back to earth. “Talk about how much you liked it when guys grabbed you and shoved you into things. To Neesan. I used to listen at your door.”

 

"Eavesdropping is rude, you know." Ah, well. Fuji pushes his trash can away with one foot, and offers Yuuta the glass of water already at the side of his bed. "Yuuta, it's not that you're doing anything wrong. It's that you're my little brother, and I'm _not_ going to sleep with you, even if you apparently know an alarming amount about my preferences."

 

“I don’t just want that.” Yuuta takes the water, and holds it between his hands, waiting until his stomach settles slightly before he takes a sip, hoping the cool of it will calm his nerves. “You asked me on a date once. I’d be a good boyfriend.” He hears himself, and grimaces, drinking the water in a few huge gulps. It was easier when he was drunker.

 

"…That word doesn't…Yuuta, it was just to play tennis, wasn't that obvious?" Fuji thought it was. No one else even batted an eye, either. He sighs, sitting down next to the other boy. "I know you'd be a good boyfriend. I wouldn't be, though. I'm not at all, actually."

 

Yuuta drains the rest of the water, then sets the cup down, looking up into his brother’s eyes. “Can I just...say everything now? I’m drunk and I couldn’t feel much worse, let me just get it all out.”

 

Oh, god, there's more? Fuji tries not to panic. "If you think that will help…" 

 

“I think about you...all the time. Like a guy should think about a girl.” Yuuta swallows, looking down at his hands. “I know you think it’s just a weird sex thing, but it’s not. I mean, I don’t think it is. And I just—I don’t get _how_ you think you’ll hurt me. I mean, this is already...it’s every day. It’s all the time, and I don’t...I don’t see it going away. The only guys I’ve ever seen you _hurt_ are the guys that want you that you won’t date, like Seiki...and Mizuki-san….and me.”

 

This is literally the worst thing, and Fuji thought it couldn't _get_ any worse. "Yuuta…I don't know how many other ways I can say this. I _can't_ date you. You're my little brother, and that's what you'll always be to me." He exhales a slow breath in an attempt to calm the thudding of his heart, but it still hasn't quite calmed down from when Yuuta's hand was in his hair, and…nope, nope, nope. "You're a really good person, and…ugh, look, here's the thing," Fuji finally sighs out, turning slightly to face him. "You're _not_ stupid. You obviously get that you're my type, and that I'd normally be all over guys like you. But you're my _brother_. It has nothing to do with whether or not you're good enough, because you're _seriously_ great, Yuuta. It's just not going to happen, because even if you can forget the fact that I'm _your_ brother, I can't forget the fact that you're _mine_." 

 

“But what does it _matter?_ ” Yuuta’s voice cracks into something raw and miserable, and the way he turns makes him dizzy enough to let him know that not eating, drinking, then throwing up aren’t the best life choices. “What’s a brother? It’s not like we could have _kids_ \--and our family’s already so fucked up, Aniki--and if you want to _protect_ me--you think my boyfriend is trash, but you’d rather I was with him? _Protect_ me then! Better yet, let me--just let me….”

 

He stands, almost punches a wall, but trips and sort of faceplants into it instead. “Fuck this.”

 

Ah, well, at least that wasn't the Tezuka wall.

 

Fuji briefly shuts his eyes, suddenly very aware that it's late, that he's tired, that he _doesn't_ want to deal with this, and oh, he does hate men that don't take _no_ for an answer, even if they're his little brother. "Mizuki might be trash, but he's been better throughout this whole thing than I have." Damn, he never thought that he'd be defending Mizuki, but the more he thinks about it… "Would you bother anyone else like this if they said that they didn't want to go out with you?" 

 

Climbing to his feet, Fuji walks over, grabbing Yuuta by the arm to spin him around. "It's _not_ cute, you know, and I never thought I'd say that about you. I'm sorry that I can't feel the same way as you do, but I _don't_. Plus, you've been _awful_ to your piece of shit boyfriend. I would know, I did the same thing with mine, but I made up with him and everything and _that's_ what you should be doing, not repeatedly asking me out after I've told you 'no' a dozen times. Just because I'm your brother and _really_ tolerant of you doesn't make it okay." 

 

Yuuta gulps so hard he nearly swallows his own tongue. He swallows again, and hangs his head, scratching embarrassedly at the back of his neck. “How do you do that?” he demands. “How do you make me feel like a little kid having a tantrum when I thought we were having an adult conversation?”

 

They weren’t. _He_ was drunk and raging and really, _really_ inappropriate, and despite all odds, the lecture actually makes him feel a little better. “I like it better when you’re my brother,” he whispers to the carpet, not sure if it makes any sense.

 

Fuji heaves out a breath, and gives Yuuta's arm a gentle squeeze. That's better. _That's_ his brother, and not the weird, intense drama queen that he's been dealing with for what feels like way too long. "I like it better, too. I know I'm not a very good one at times, but I _do_ try to be, Yuuta. I love you a lot, so I guess there's that going for me. Listen, though, if you had punched the Tezuka wall, we would have had words."

 

Yuuta snorts. “It’s not like you don’t have copies and negatives of all of those pictures in the box in your closet. You used to give me 1000 yen to organize them.”

 

"That's not the point. The point is, you should always respect the Tezuka wall. Also, you really reek of bad wine, and you need to take out the trash for me and take a shower."

 

Yuuta nods numbly. “Yeah. I’m sorry.” He grabs the trash can, only wobbling on his legs a little, and hesitates by the door. “Aniki. I’m not saying it was your fault that I started feeling...like this. But the way you act...did make me think you might, too. That’s the only reason I said anything.”

 

"I know." Fuji sighs, shrugging tiredly. "The captain of team over share and lack of personal space, that's me. I don't blame you either way, Yuuta. It is what it is." 

 

Yuuta rolls his eyes. “More like team, uh, low self-esteem. No, I can do better than that, shit. What’s a better word for that?”

 

"Yuuta, it's time for you to go now."

 

“Yeah.” Yuuta grimaces. “Can you not...tell people about this? I mean, I wish you could forget too, but...yeah. Never mind, do whatever you want, it’s my own dumb fault. Night, Aniki.”

 

"Yuuta, I am literally never going to repeat a word of this," Fuji gently tells him, and puts a hand firmly on the door. "Now go on, get to sleep, and call your piece of filth boyfriend in the morning." 

 

The look Yuuta shoots him is, for once since the stupid thing began, more about relief than pain. “Yeah. Okay.” He doesn’t stumble too much, though he could be more steady on his feet when he lurches down the hall to the room he hasn’t redecorated since he was 11.

 

~

 

Niou shouldn’t be too angry.

 

He tells himself that again and again, but none of it seems to make a difference to the way his whole body heats up, furious and pulsing with every breath he takes. He’d just mixed up the phones--no, fine, he was checking Yagyuu’s phone on purpose, but only because the damn thing kept going off with texts every five fucking minutes, and Yagyuu takes long girly showers.

 

That’s why he’s splayed out angrily when Yagyuu finally gets out, noodly form wrapped in a towel from the waist down, looking...well, fine, looking like something Niou wants to hit over the head and drag into his bedroom, but that’s not important right now. “I hope she sucks dick good,” he says, taut and hard, tossing Yagyuu’s phone onto the couch. “Doesn’t really seem worth it, otherwise.”

 

For once, Yagyuu _really_ has no idea what Niou's talking about. He's usually pretty good at piecing parts of the puzzle together, but this…

 

"Okay," he slowly says, flopping down onto the arm of the couch, "you're going to have to help me out here and tell me legitimately what you're talking about." 

 

“Your phone kept going off.” Niou glares at the phone accusingly, as if it’s the phone’s fault his boyfriend is a cheating whore. “‘Yagyuu-sempai, thanks for meeting with me and teaching me that move.’ ‘Yagyuu-sempai, your arms are soooo strong, teach me how you get so _limber_.’ ‘Yagyuu-sempai, when can I see you again?’ I hope this Kaoru chick has at least got big tits. You’re gonna ruin my reputation otherwise.” That stupid look on Yagyuu’s stupid handsome face makes Niou want, _crave_ to believe there’s another explanation, but ugh, Yagyuu never gave _him_ a chance when Fuji was on his couch.

 

Yagyuu stares a moment longer, and then groans, burying his face down into one hand as it clicks. "Niou-kun," he tiredly says, "that's _not_ a girl. That's Kaoru-kun--you know, Kaidou Kaoru? The bandana guy, Seigaku?"

 

Niou stares blankly for a minute before it clicks into place, and he bursts into laughter, cracking up so hard that he slides off the couch arm, sideways onto the cushions. “You--seriously--pfff-- _that guy?_ You’re fucking _that guy?_ _Shit_ , I can’t even be _mad_ , fucking _hell_ you have weird taste!”

 

"I'm not fucking him!" Yagyuu incredulously snaps back, looking rather mortified, truth be told. "God, no! Why do you think I'm _fucking him_ , we just played a doubles match when a couple of idiots were insulting Yukimura-kun. He seems nice enough, but I'm _not_ fucking him."

 

Niou’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? You’re not? Shit, then he’s got it _bad_ for you.” He goes back into the deep, throatily seductive voice he’d used for ‘Kaoru’ before. “‘Yagyuu-sempai, I _need_ to see you, I need to feel your big strong arms around my booooody…’”

 

Yagyuu exhales an aggravated sigh, yanking his towel off to snap Niou across the head with it before stalking away to get dressed. "He's _not_ interested in me like that. You're being disgusting, Niou-kun."

 

Niou rolls with the hit, sagging cheerfully onto the sofa. “Okay, but he’s into you. Seriously, reread his messages. He wants your sempai body.”

 

"You're making things up," Yagyuu calls over his shoulder. "Please remember that only you are insane enough to want my body, first of all."

 

Niou nearly falls off of the sofa staring at Yagyuu’s ass. Yeah, well. “I will literally bet you anything you want that if you asked him out he’d trip over his own bandana getting here as fast as he could. I’ll bet you my sister. I’ll fucking bet you an island, you know my dad gives us some for gambling.”

 

"…I'm not going to ask him out." The idea is baffling, truth be told. Yagyuu tugs his pants up, and starts tucking his shirt in. "We just played tennis, that's all. Niou-kun, I really think you're making things up. Is this some kind of revenge method, or…"

 

“Or,” Niou clarifies. “I’m just telling you, he’s into you. Shit, I was just freaking out because I thought you were boning some chick, but this is funny.” He stands, and loops his arms over Yagyuu’s shoulders from behind. “But if he tries anything, I’ll probably bite his face off. You’re so fucking taken.”

 

He can't help but be pleased at hearing those words (maybe more than pleased, judging by the flush to his cheeks that he promptly smacks down). Yagyuu pushes his glasses up with a huff, leaning back into Niou's hold. "Don't bite his face off. It's already suffering." 

 

Niou slowly digs his fingernails into Yagyuu’s chest rhythmically, nuzzling against his neck, breathing in deep and getting a nose full of bath products for his trouble. “Suffering? Why, did someone else’s boyfriend rearrange it before I could get there?”

 

"I'm just saying that I have standards, and he isn't meeting them. Ah, Niou-kun, sharp nails," Yagyuu mutters, smacking lightly at one of his hands. 

 

“You like my sharp nails.” Probably not true, at least not when they’re not raking down his back and Yagyuu’s stuffing him full of cock. With that in mind, Niou rubs up against him from behind, shamelessly grinding. “How soon do you have to go?”

 

"I literally _just_ took a shower," is Yagyuu's immediate protest, though it's sort of hard to argue with 99% of what Niou does, this included."Did you sync heat cycles with one of your cats or something?" he dryly asks, twisting around in Niou's hold. "Not that I _mind_ …"

 

Niou meets his mouth in a filthy kiss, sucking long and hard on one of Yagyuu’s lips, curling his tongue around Yagyuu’s, hands coming up to tangle in neat wet hair. “You were naked,” he says unapologetically, rubbing his half-hard cock against one lean thigh. “I’m into it. One of your best looks. You’re...fuck, you’re so much hotter than you know.”

 

Well, there goes _those_ attempts to argue.

 

Yagyuu has to admit that he's easily affected by flattery. Niou's flattery, first and foremost, and when it's accompanied by grabbing hands and the other boy grinding up on him like he's going to die if he doesn't get to keep going…yeah. Well. 

 

"You're _always_ hot," he mutters against Niou's mouth, grabbing handfuls of his ass to haul him closer and kiss him harder. Niou's mouth remains a distraction for a moment, but then it's his neck that looks particularly appealing, always fun to bite because Niou's so _pale_ , and everything he does shows up there in stark contrast. "You're showering with me again, after this." 

 

“Prissy bitch,” Niou laughs, and reaches his hands up to yank on Yagyuu’s nipples through his crisply pressed shirt. “You just like how it feels to bend me over in the shower and play with all your come leaking out of my hole, right?” Every fucking time, not that Niou’s complaining. “Fuck me up so you can clean me up, Yaaagyuu.”

 

The thing about Niou is that he isn't _fair_ , and he kind of has Yagyuu by the cock the moment his hands are on his nipples or he's saying his name like that. 

 

Or both, right now, which is just rude, Yagyuu thinks.

 

" _You've_ been watching too much porn," he mutters, firmly shoving Niou back and sending him sprawling over the couch as he unfastens his fly. "Take your pants off already, where'd the lube go?" 

 

Something about the sight of Yagyuu unbuttoning himself purely for the purpose of getting out his dick to shove it in makes Niou so hard so fast that he can’t breathe for a second. “You look fucking dangerous,” he nearly purrs, licking his lips, eyes dilated as he reaches behind himself, grabbing the lube from his bookbag. Yeah, he’s usually watching too much porn, but where else is a guy supposed to get ideas? “You like it when I act like a slutty porn star, don’t lie.” He can’t even move his eyes, locked on to Yagyuu’s cock as he sprawls back.

 

There are a dozen things he could say about that, but most of it comes down to: "You _always_ act like a slutty porn star." _So I can't help it, damn it all._ The thing is, Niou has him somewhat trained, and that…….could be a lot worse. 

 

It's pretty great, actually. 

 

"Unlike slutty porn stars, though," Yagyuu archly begins as he climbs onto the couch, fisting a hand into Niou's hair and yanking his head back as he pushes his legs apart to wriggle between them, "you always whine about taking dick. Are you going to be better about that today, or still complain?" 

 

Niou sucks in a breath, pushing up Yagyuu’s shirt without unbuttoning it, rubbing and tugging at his nipples as he arches his back. “You like it when I complain,” he accuses breathlessly, moving his hips up to rub against Yagyuu’s hardening cock, feeling his own throb in response. “Makes you feel like a big man, right? Shoving it in me whether I want you to or not?” 

 

Ah, that’s a button, and he bites his lip, groaning a little at the idea, hands splaying out over Yagyuu’s chest as his legs spread.

 

Maybe the problem is that they tend to watch the same porn, and therefore, have twenty dozen similar preferences. 

 

Yagyuu's breath catches up in his chest, and he nods, dragging his fingers out of Niou's hair to get him by the throat instead to hold him down. "You'll take it. It's because you're only good for taking dick, and you know it." 

 

When he's already this hard, it's not easy to get his cock out, but he _needs to_ , because shit, just _look_ at what's squirming underneath him. Yagyuu swallows hard, releasing Niou just long enough to fumble with the lube and get a generous amount on his cock. "Doesn't really matter what you tell me," he breathes, voice rough around the edges when the head of his cock catches against Niou's hole. "I'm gonna make sure you're stuffed full."

 

 _Shit_.

 

Niou feels himself getting lightheaded as all the blood in his body rushes to his cock, and his hands scrabble at Yagyuu’s chest, not sure if he’s trying to keep him or push him away (and knowing full well he doesn’t want to push him away). “Fuck, go slow,” he mutters, wriggling down to try and spread his legs wider, as suddenly Yagyuu’s cock looks a lot bigger than normal. Maybe it’s the way he’s just _pulled it out,_ not bothering to take off the rest of his clothes, and fuck, that’s hot as hell.

 

It’s not hard to imagine Yagyuu as some important businessman on a lunch break, running out for a bento and seeing something much more attractive in an alleyway. He’s got that hunger, that ruthless amorality in his eyes that Niou knows from his father’s friends, knows is good for business, and somehow even that makes him harder. “Gonna be too big this way,” he groans. “You gotta--do something for me first.” He swallows hard, not even sure if he wants Yagyuu to listen or not.

 

"Weren't you just proud of being slutty a minute ago?" Yagyuu grabs up Niou's wrists before he can keep pushing at his chest, shoving them back over his head to the arm of the couch. Niou might be stronger than him, but the thing is, Niou usually just _lets him_ shove him around, and that makes up for a lot. Right now, it makes up for everything. 

 

"You'll get used to it," Yagyuu tells him, his breath catching hard when he _has_ to let off a bit of steam and let his cock grind against the inside of Niou's thigh, sticky and slick from lube and his own precome. "I bet you've had bigger. The way you move--you're just fucking asking for it." 

 

Just to be sure, though, Yagyuu gives into the urge to empty that bottle of lube completely--over his own cock, letting it drip down Niou's balls and hole as well. He doesn't wait after that, though that first push is always the worst, the _tightest_ , because just getting the head of his cock in Niou takes effort, but once it's in--god, he's in _heaven_. 

 

The long whimper Niou lets out is totally unfeigned, and his eyes burn with tears for a minute at the sheer _stretch_ of it. It steals his breath for a minute, not entirely comfortable, and shit, shit, _shit_ he needs a boyfriend with a smaller dick.

 

He groans, wriggling ineffectually under Yagyuu’s hand, knowing it’ll just force Yagyuu into him more, _harder_ , and damned if that isn’t what he wants right now. It burns, and Niou shoves himself down for more with a broken whine, head lolling back as he thrashes. “F-fuck, it’s too big,” he hisses out, thighs trembling from being shoved open so wide, and he cramps and aches from being stuffed so full. Every movement Yagyuu makes is slick-sweet torture, dragging at his insides and making him shudder. 

 

Finally he manages to relax, and his head thunks back against the arm of the sofa as he arches. “Gonna charge you double,” he moans, shoving himself down.

 

Yagyuu's nails bite into Niou's wrists, and oh, those are going to be some interesting bruises. Niou's like a vice around his cock, so tight that it aches even when he relaxes, and that's only comfortable when he shoves in so deep that their skin slaps together, everything sticky and slick and just messy- _sounding_ , which makes him throb inside of his stupid slutty boyfriend.

 

"Shut up." Yagyuu lurches up, biting at the arc of Niou's throat, sucking hard when he feels the other boy swallow, when he feels Niou's breath catch up in his throat. "I'm just fucking you because you're cheap, and you fucking _like it_." His own voice breaks on a groan, his eyes squeezing shut when he grinds forward, his next hard thrust shoving Niou back into the arm of the couch. "Just look how good you are at taking it."

 

It’s a blatant lie--Niou knows he’s just about the worst at taking dick--but damned if he doesn’t love it. 

 

There are a few scattered fantasies in Niou’s mind--something about a maid, something about a whore, something about a businessman with dark eyes behind his glasses--but Niou can’t focus on anything but the thick cock driving into him over and over, taking him deep, making him squirm. 

 

He doesn’t even have to beg, Fuck me like a whore, because Yagyuu already is, Yagyuu gets him, and Yagyuu’s already dicking him as hard as he can take. Nothing about this position is comfortable, but that doesn’t stop Niou from writhing down helplessly, bucking with every punishing thrust, begging, “F-fuck, you’re in too deep, I can fucking taste it—” just before he loses it, a full-body shudder that feels like it goes on forever, cock throbbing and spilling over his stomach when Yagyuu drills into him just right. It’s been a while since he’s come like this, the slow burning intensity of a completely dick-free orgasm, and for a long minute, he can’t even breathe as he rides it out, feeling his cock leak more and more, draining him so completely he can’t stop shaking as the pleasure ripples through his body.

 

Niou is incredible to watch.

 

He's fucking gorgeous, especially when he's being fucked, and for not the first time, Yagyuu has to wonder _why the hell are you with me_ , but god, he's not going to question it, not when he's shaking and shivering underneath _him_. 

 

It makes Yagyuu's mind click off entirely. It makes him give up holding Niou's wrists down, just makes him grab at his hips instead, yanking him down onto his cock when he shoves up into him with panting, ragged gasps and grunts against his neck. He's not gentle when he comes, either, shoving up in as deep as he can, his head thunking down against Niou's shoulder when he spills hard and fast and feels like his spine has just been ripped out of him from the force of it all. 

 

"Fuck," Yagyuu eloquently groans, collapsing down when he just can't stay taut and shivering forever.

 

“Take it from me,” Niou says, muffled into Yaguu’s hair. “You definitely just did.”

 

 _Moving_ sounds like a fool’s errand, and Niou is far more content to just lay there limp and aching, a few choice bits of himself throbbing in time with his heartbeat. “Shit man. Were you saving that up or something? I’m pretty sure you can see my belly poking out. Better put a towel under me when you pull out.”

 

"Gross, Niou-kun," is the muffled, half-hearted protest against Niou's neck. Unable to help himself, though, Yagyuu sneaks a hand between them and presses down low on Niou's stomach. Ah, well, he _is_ an awful pervert after all, he supposes. "I bet it would be easy to feel my cock right here, though, when it's hard."

 

Niou groans, grabbing weakly at Yagyuu’s hand. “Fuck, don’t, I’m gonna be so sore.”

 

"Sorry, sorry." With a grimace, Yagyuu twists to grab his previously discarded towel, because Niou's _probably_ right about the mess. Ah, yep, inevitable, when he pulls out, and they're definitely both going to need a shower. "I _could_ just start using a condom again when we fuck…" Niou's love-hate relationship with latex, however, usually made that less than fun.

 

Niou lets out a hiss at that, though whether at the sudden stinging emptiness or the suggestion is difficult to say. “Keep those for when we’re in a hurry. Or in public. Or roleplaying something where we’d have to.” He tries to sit up, and yeah, that actually burns so much he has to blink rapidly.

 

"…Perhaps a bath is a better idea." Or not moving for a few more minutes in general, honestly. Yagyuu gently pushes Niou back down by the shoulder. "Do you want a cigarette? I have a few spares in my bag." That usually takes the edge off, if nothing else. 

 

The look Niou shoots him is grateful and affectionate, and he sprawls out on the sofa, extending a hand. “Only if you light it for me like in the American movies. Share it?”

 

Yagyuu's smile is wry, but he nods, tucking himself back up into his pants before climbing off the couch to fish out the cigarette in question. " _Which_ American movies, though?" He sets it between his own lips to light it up all the same, exhaling smoke in the next moment before passing it over to Niou. "Indirect kisses are better." 

 

Niou gives him a brief smile, then takes the cigarette, taking a long drag before saying in what he probably believes is fantastically American accented English, “Here is look at you, kid.”

 

"Niou-kun, you're awfully cute, but I've _just_ gotten used to your islander Japanese. Don't switch it up now." 

 

“Puri.”


	31. Sanada & Yukimura

It’s the rumble of his stomach that wakes Sanada from the best sleep he’s ever had. No, he realizes on second thought. Not his stomach, but Yukimura’s. Yukimura is in his arms, relaxed and pliant, and the sunlight is spilling in through the window in sweet warm rays, not too hot at this altitude. 

 

Sanada vaguely considers waking up and doing his meditation exercises...but Yukimura is _warm_ and _alive_. He shuts his eyes, counts to ten a few times, and opens them again. That will do. Everyone needs a day off once in a while.

 

He’s always wanted to wake Yukimura with slow kisses, and does so now, starting behind his ear and working forwards along his jaw, brushing against his lips. The rest of their bodies are touching, which is one of the most decadent things he can think of--he was _inside_ Yukimura, and even if it wasn’t perfect, it was still the best thing he’s ever felt. “Morning,” he murmurs, nuzzling under Yukimura’s ear.

 

Being woken up isn't Yukimura's favorite thing in the world, but like this, it'll do.

 

Yukimura rolls partially backwards, flopping his weight against Sanada's chest, and gently butts his head back against him. "Already?" he mumbles, blinking slowly at the sun pouring in through the window. "Nn. Apparently." 

 

Sanada is warm and comfortable and even though he feels all sorts of stiff and weird in some odd places, it's pretty easy to ignore. There are good reasons behind it all, after all, and remembering that makes Yukimura snuggle back against the other boy. "You didn't get up at four in the morning. That's new." 

 

Sanada laughs, feeling better, more relaxed than he has in ages. “I think we slept for about sixteen hours. I don’t know about you, but I think I needed it.” His arms sling low around Yukimura’s waist. Just being able to hold him casually, without wires and tubes in the way, is the greatest feeling of all.

 

"I could sleep _more_." He usually can, even if he's rarely given the chance. Yukimura slowly rotates, squirming around to face Sanada instead, peering up at him through the mess of his hair. "Gen is starting to look awfully cute again, though. No eye bags, fewer lines, that's good." 

 

“Less worried.” Sanada kisses Yukimura softly, gathering him close. One hand trails down Yukimura’s back, and he murmurs, “You _did_ say you wanted to do it lots of times…” before sliding just the tip of his finger down and _in_ , teasing slightly.

 

It's actually pretty impressive how quickly he can wake up when something _hurts_ , and the result is a whack to Sanada's face and a knee right to the groin in Yukimura's sudden attempt to put distance between them.

 

"Sorry, sorry--that _hurts_ , though, you can't just do it without warning!" 

 

Sanada’s eyes bulge, and he curls in on himself, swearing creatively in his mind when all that comes out is a high-pitched whine. “Sss--s-s-seiichi...why…..”

 

"I said I was sorry!! And I just told you why, you can't just do that out of nowhere!" Yukimura sits up with a huff, raking a hand through his hair and trying not to scowl too much. _Why_ did it have to hurt that much, though? Niou didn't warn him about that. "Man up, Genichirou, I didn't kick you that hard. Maybe your dick will be smaller next time because of this. Do you need some ice or something?" 

 

Sanada waves that away, sucking in a few deep breaths. “You mostly got me in the thigh. Just...clipped them a little.” His smile is wan as he straightens up, cupping himself reflexively. “ _Sorry_ , I just remembered you saying it was a fantasy of yours to wake up like that.”

 

"…I forgot." Apparently, being sleepy and thinking about sex don't go as hand in hand in his mind as he'd like. Yukimura huffs again at that realization, and flops back down onto his back. "Also, it all still hurts, so nope, not gonna happen."

 

Sanada nods, scooting away slightly so he doesn’t accidentally hurt him any further. “Sorry. I don’t know...how to make it better than that yet. Maybe it would hurt less if we used a condom?”

 

"Unless that's going to end up making you smaller, I doubt that." 

 

Sanada lets out an irritated huff. He doesn’t _want_ to be irritated, but… “I know how long it takes you to heal up from things. If we’re not going to be able to do it the whole time we’re up here, I’d better start sleeping on the sofa. Otherwise it’ll test my self-control the whole time.”

 

Yukimura gives him a sour look. " _Your_ self-control? I've been sneezing and orgasming, do you know how weird that is? We are definitely still going to do it." 

 

“Welcome to my hell,” Sanada says dryly. Then, an idea occurs to him, and he asks almost shyly, “Does it hurt...you know, in front?”

 

"Use your big adult words, Gen-n- _n_." He can't help but pick on Sanada this morning, just a _little_. 

 

Sanada scowls. “I didn’t think that was sexy. The computer said it was more sexy not to use the words.”

 

Yukimura slowly rolls to the side, burying his face down into a pillow to stifle his laughter. 

 

“Fine! Penis! Penis! Is that what you want to hear?”

 

The laughter gets worse, and Yukimura holds up a hand for mercy. "I'm _crying,_ Gen, g-give me a sec, my eyes still hurt from last night--"

 

Sanada growls, and tosses a pillow over Yukimura’s head. “Get control of yourself! I’m asking if your penis is in pain!”

 

The laughter turns to muffled shrieks. "It's fine, _fine_ , god, I'm gonna throw up and that's your fault, too--"

 

Sanada briefly considers murdering him, but that would be too kind a fate. 

 

Then, something breaks, and his own mouth starts to twitch. It’s just so _good_ to hear Yukimura’s laugh again--how could he deny him anything? 

 

That doesn’t stop him from rolling Yukimura up in a bundle and leaving him there, though.

 

"Hey! _Hey_ , Gen, get back here!" 

 

Of course, it's pretty hard to yell at Sanada when he's still giggling nonstop, and it takes a long while before his chest stops heaving and he can properly _breathe_. Yukimura wheezes, slowly rolling himself towards the edge of the bed. "I feel like this is undeserved punishment!"

 

Sanada folds his arms, looming over him. “You tell me to wake you up that way, then you kick me in the nuts! You tell me to say the words, then you laugh yourself sick! I’m _trying_ to have sex with you!”

 

Yukimura peers up over the bundle of blankets that he's still thoroughly wrapped in. "It's not _my_ fault that it hurt or that you were unintentionally funny. You're just really cute sometimes, Genichirou." 

 

Sanada’s scowl softens, and he sits on the side of the bed, cupping Yukimura’s face. “It’s good to see you having fun. I just...I always want to be with you, you know? I don’t like being laughed at.”

 

"Listen, if you don't think shouting 'penis' at the top of your lungs is funny, then we've got some things to talk about," Yukimura solemnly says, butting his head into Sanada's touch. 

 

“You’re hard to please,” Sanada complains, but he untucks the ends of the blanket, scooting back onto the bed. “And you said you didn’t like it when I laughed anymore.”

 

"…That's because your laugh borders on terrifying," Yukimura slowly reminds him. "I mean, not like, Akaya terrifying, but pretty close. I'll let it slide up here, though; I bet it's cuter on a mountain."

 

Sanada butts his head against Yukimura’s shoulder. “This is why I don’t laugh. You call me stiff, but this is the reason.”

 

"Wrong. You stopped laughing when I got sick, not because I told you it was weird." Yukimura wriggles out of the blankets to get his hands in Sanada's hair, kneading his fingers into his scalp. "Like I said, I bet it's cuter now."

 

It’s startling, how quickly Yukimura can take him from dour and unhappy to desperately, madly in love. Sanada relaxes into that touch, eyes sliding shut. “You’re right,” he whispers. The last time he’d thought something was really fantastically fun, something was actually funny, had been in China, the week before Yukimura had collapsed for the first time. “But we have lots of it ahead of us, don’t you think?”

 

"Mm. You woke up cuter, and you're being cute right now…so that's a sign of good things to come, I think," Yukimura teases, petting Sanada's hair slowly. "Back to the point at hand, though--I could always put it in you next time. I dunno if you'll like it, though."

 

Sanada doesn’t blush. Then he does, despite his best efforts, though he _doesn’t_ mean to. “That’s why I asked whether it hurt,” he says, only a little embarrassed. “I thought I should at least try it once, like you did.” The idea that maybe they’ll _both_ hate it is a chilling one, and one he hadn’t thought of. Ah, well. Maybe they’ll just be a couple who needs hands and mouths to make each other happy.

 

For now, Sanada shifts on top of Yukimura, straddling his hips. There’s no need to be shy, he tells himself firmly, but just that is enough to bring color to his cheeks, even as his cock swells.

 

Huh, well, that makes him harder faster than he anticipated. Back to the ole sneezing and orgasming thing, Yukimura supposes, which _could_ be worse. Deep breaths. Deep, soothing breaths, and less thinking about how nice Sanada looks there and how broad his shoulders are and how big his pecs are and--

 

 _More_ deep breaths. "I'm starting to wonder if I _shouldn't_ go back on that other stuff," Yukimura manages, curling his hands around Sanada's hips, "because just looking at you is a problem…"

 

Sanada leans down, and kisses Yukimura’s lips, silencing him. “If you could see how much more vibrant you look…” 

 

He trails off, but kisses Yukimura’s cheeks, his eyelids, his nose before rocking back, arranging himself until Yukimura’s cock is resting against the cleft of his ass. He nods at the bedside stand, and the lube. “If you want to wear the gloves it’s fine, I don’t mind,” he assures Yukimura. “Whichever.”

 

 _You are missing the point_ Yukimura is desperately inclined to tell him, but better is more breathing deep so that he doesn't come _immediately_. Stretching an arm over to snatch up the lube is at least a distraction from the way his cock already aches. "If you don't like it, make sure you tell me," he warns, pushing himself up, one hand's fingers slick and dripping when they drag down the cleft of Sanada's ass, brushing against his hole before one slowly wriggles inside. "I'm not set on this whole 'you _have_ to try it because I did' thing, so…" 

 

Given Yukimura’s reactions the day before, Sanada expecting pain, something violent, something he’ll just have to grit his teeth and tolerate--and he will, he tells himself, because that’s what a man does.

 

He’s not prepared for the way it actually feels.

 

His eyes flutter, and his hands ball into fists on Yukimura’s chest as his back bows, hands clenching and unclenching as he lets out a low groan. “You...yeah.” He takes a deep breath, and deliberately squirms, feeling the way that shifts the finger inside of him and rocking back slightly. “I think...more.”

 

Yukimura blinks, and being both startled and aroused is an odd combination for sure. "Really?" 

 

Well, that's good. He was pretty ready to pull his hand away and just grab Sanada's cock, but this works. He licks his lips, dragging his hand back slightly just enough to make it easier to get a second finger inside, easily to the second knuckle. Sanada is hot and slick around him, and the way he _moves_ … 

 

Ah, nope, nope, can't think too much. The way his cock twitches is a reminder of that, and Yukimura shivers when he lurches up, snapping his teeth gently against Sanada's shoulder. "You like it that much?" 

 

Sanada nods, not trusting his voice for a moment when that second finger presses inside him. He bites his lip, eyes half-lidded as he moves his hips back, taking a deep breath and looking inward at his body, figuring out which muscles to relax. Meditation makes this easier, he thinks, and maybe _this_ will get Yukimura to try it out with him, if anything will. “S’good,” he murmurs, leaning back on his bent knees, sitting almost in seiza as he moves, rubbing slowly back on Yukimura’s cock. “I think...you could just…” No, Yukimura wants the words, and Sanada’s face flushes hot. “P-put your cock in me.” 

 

God, that sounds embarrassing. Yukimura is going to make fun of him.

 

Yukimura's fantasies all quickly, cheerfully rearrange themselves, because ah, yes, _this_ is apparently the best thing in the world and go figure it would take a mountain and nearly dying twice to figure that out. 

 

" _Genichirou_ \--" That's raspy around the edges, really, really eager even though his mouth is dry, and Yukimura has to suck in a shaky breath to try and stay in some semblance of control. His hand shakes when he pulls it away, fumbling with the lube a second time, just enough to slick up his cock when he lurches up onto his elbows again. "You look _so_ good like this," he breathes, wriggling to get his cock where Sanada needs it, and god, that first push inside is _way_ better than it should be, all hot and slick and he's probably going to die a third time right about now. 

 

Given how much Yukimura had complained the night before, Sanada expects to have to swat at him, to have to tell him to _go slow_ , to beg him to be gentle—

 

That doesn’t exactly happen.

 

Sanada doesn’t recognize the sound coming from his own lips, but he tips his head back, groaning long and low, and rocks down hard onto Yukimura’s cock. “Seiichi,” he murmurs, over and over as he rocks, back on his heels until his ass is flush with Yukimura’s hips, and then grinding down. “ _God_ , Seiichi—” 

 

Someone should have _told_ him it would feel like this, slick-hot-hard pressing inside of him, filling him up and stretching him open, opening him like the sweetest pleasure, the most exquisite pain, making him crave more with every breath.

 

 _Why didn't we do it this way before_ is Yukimura's glazed over thought process, but that's quickly gone and focused on how Sanada looks when their hips are flush, when his cock is buried inside so deep that his vision blurs and he can't _help_ but flex his nails into Sanada's hips to pull him down for more. 

 

His own back arches, his hips twitching up whenever Sanada grinds down onto him, and yes, that's pretty damn close to perfect. Yukimura's fingers curl around the curve of Sanada's ass, kneading when he pulls the other boy down and god, that feels good. "You," he pants out, his head falling back, eyes fluttering when his cock _throbs_ , "look like you were _made_ for this, Gen."

 

Sanada tries to say something, but it comes out garbled, a drawn-out moan without words, something that starts as “ _Fuck me_ ” and goes all the way through “ _Seiichi please, please_ ” and everything in between.

 

Strong thighs flex as he raises himself up onto his knees, then down again, breath catching anew when he feels Yukimura _burn_ inside of him. That’s good, that friction that comes when he moves, and he starts going faster, eyes glassy and dilated as he rides that perfect cock stuffing him full. “Made for you,” he finally manages to pant, one hand coming up to wipe the sweat from his brow. His cock throbs, and his hand steals down to wrap around it, slowly stroking himself in time with his movements. In all his life, Sanada can’t remember ever being so lost in sensation, and revels in it.

 

_It was nice knowing you, self-control._

 

 _How_ is a thought that briefly crosses Yukimura's mind, because god, he _knows_ Sanada wasn't doing anything wrong the night before--this is just something on another level, and he really can't think of a time that his cock was this hard, his nerves this on fire, and stealing a glance down at how Sanada is jerking himself off--

 

"God, _Genichirou_ \--" That's the last coherent thing he can manage to gasp out, Yukimura's voice breaking around the edges when he lurches up, buried in as deeply as he possibly can be. His nails scrape against Sanada's hips, digging in to hold him _down_ , all so that he's _sure_ he's coming inside as deeply as he possibly can. _No one else is allowed to see you like this, you're mine, mine, mine_ \--

 

The sudden splash of intense liquid heat inside is enough to make Sanada forget his name, enough to make him shudder and jerk, grinding down with every half-breath, and he lets his head fall back as he groans. “Seiichi…”

 

That’s what it is, doing him in. It’s Yukimura, _inside him_ , physically now where he’s always been mentally. Sanada would love to think it’s that reason that he spills so much, so hard, over Yukimura’s abdomen and chest and even face, _god_ , but the reality is probably far more base, far more to do with the hard cock driving into him again and again, claiming and _possessing_ him.

 

Sanada wouldn’t have it any other way.

 

He tries not to collapse, and manages to at least catch himself before he utterly squashes his boyfriend, lowering himself to the side in a spent, sated slump. His ass twitches, he notes with dismay, but even that is a sort of filthy-slippery-messy-ache that makes him shift around to feel more of it. “Oh,” he manages, finally. “ _That_ way.”

 

Yukimura's mind is still fuzzy, and that's good, to a point. He groans, rolling around to grab at Sanada, landing a sloppy kiss on his lips before he just gives up and flops down. " _That_ way," he breezily agrees, lifting a hand up to wipe half-heartedly at his cheek. _How_ the mess even made it there, he doesn't know, but he'll attribute it to his prowess in bed, if anything. "Like…Most of the time, I think." 

 

Sanada lets out a laugh, the most relaxed and content one he’s heard from his own mouth in years. “You’re amazing. That was amazing. I...god. I messed you up, didn’t I?” he teases gently, wiping at another spot with his thumb.

 

"You can make me a mess any time. All the time. Again, right now," Yukimura hums, lurching up to kiss him again, grinning as he does. "The _faces_ you make--damn, Gen, I wish I had known. That would have solved a _lot_ of problems." 

 

“I wish I’d known, too,” Sanada says, meeting his kiss with an answering grin. “I could have practiced. Then again, it doesn’t seem to have made much difference. Nn, it’s messy, isn’t it?” He flexes a little experimentally, then shrugs. “Not too bad. Worse the other way, I think, because I...you know. A lot more.”

 

Yukimura's eyes glaze. "I'm going to cover you in oil and then we're going to do it again and I'm going to watch the way all your muscles move like _that_." Yesss, he has the best ideas.

 

“Always with the oil,” Sanada grumbles. “Why can’t you cover me in something that comes off easier?”

 

"Well, you look really good sweaty or just soaked through and kind of dirty, too. But oil…oil makes everything all _shiny_ , and I _do_ like that." 

 

“Soap is shiny! Let’s try soap!”

 

"Lame. I'm gonna oil you." 

 

Sanada groans, and lays a hand on Yukimura’s chest, just close enough to feel his heart thudding. “As long as we get to do it again after,” he agrees, somewhat grumpily. “ _This_ way.”

 


	32. Kaidou & Ryouma, Kaidou & Zaizen

Echizen Nanjirou is getting sort of sick of banging on his son’s door. “Oi! Brat! You have a visitor! That room better not have any pillow forts today!” Under his breath, he mutters, “And you better not be dating this one.”

 

At least this one doesn’t call him names like “The less-relevant Echizen.” On the contrary, the kid on his doorstep seems almost too starstruck to move, which Nanjirou has always enjoyed. “You can come in for tea,” he offers, when Nanako glares at him. The kid bows deeply, then takes off his shoes, though not his bandana, and settles into seiza in front of the low table.

 

“Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

 

“Whoo, damn you’ve got a low voice! How old are you, anyway?”

 

“Fourteen, sir.”

 

Nanjirou shoves over a teacup, which Nanako fills before slapping him upside the head. “Ach! Watch it, or the ghost will get you!”

 

“Ghost?” The kid looks like one, pale and drawn all of a sudden, and Nanjirou has to try hard not to laugh out loud.

 

“Yeah, sure. This is an old shrine, right? Let me tell you about the headless samurai…”

 

Nanako knocks on Ryouma’s door with a long-suffering sigh. “Ryouma, if you want to rescue your friend from your father, you should probably get out here soon.”

 

It begs the question which of his friends is brave enough to come through the front door, but Ryouma drags himself slowly out of bed, yawning and bleary-eyed even though it's nearly noon. 

 

"Coming," he mutters, raking a hand back through his hair, and he methodically tucks Karupin underneath one arm as he stumbles down the hall and stands in the doorway. Ryouma blinks, and Karupin squirms. "Kaidou-sempai?"

 

“Hey, look who’s actually up before noon! This is not usual behavior, right, kid? Tell him!”

 

Kaidou looks like he’s about to throw up, but he gives Ryouma a weak nod. “Morning. Got a question for…” His face gains color again, softening when he sees Karupin. “Nice cat. Really cute.”

 

"Shut up, Oyaji." Karupin squirms again, and Ryouma lets him go, watching him leap over to Kaidou and sit next to him, tails swishing expectantly. Ryouma yawns again, and flops down onto the floor in a heap. "Is this a tennis thing, Kaidou- _buchou?"_

 

Kaidou pulls a coiled-up piece of yarn out of his pocket, for just this occasion, and starts dangling it in front of the cat. It’s not like he can _help_ it, when he has that little _face_. “Oh! Uh, not an official one. I was just--my father has to go to Osaka for business, and there’s…” He coughs, but the cat’s antics, swiping dangerously with unclipped nails, are enough to take his mind off of what he’s asking. “If you want to come, there’s an extra seat in the car.”

 

“Eh? What would he do in Osaka? What a weird guy!”

 

“Next year’s captain of one of the top four teams in Japan has invited me--er, not just me, all of Seigaku next year, but Momoshiro can’t come--to a practice match down there since I already have a ride.” Kaidou can’t help but touch that inviting belly, just a little. 

 

“Why would he want to play a practice match? You guys already beat them, right?”

 

"Oyaji, shut _up_." His dad is so lame, why does he have to ask so many questions? Ryouma sleepily reaches out to pull on Karupin's tail. "That's a long drive, Kaidou-sempai. You're not gonna be mad if I just sleep the whole time, are you?" 

 

Kaidou shrugs. “I’ll probably be doing homework the whole way. My dad is a very safe driver, Echizen-san,” he adds hurriedly. “I can give you the phone numbers of—”

 

Nanjirou waves a hand. “If he wants to go to Osaka, whatever. Bring me back some omiyage.”

 

“Yes, Echizen-san.”

 

“I was talking to my brat. But yeah, you bring me omiyage too!”

 

"Oyaji, I hate you." Ryouma shrugs at Kaidou. "Sure, Kaidou-sempai. I'll go with you. Sounds like fun." _Kintarou will be there, we are going to play_ so _much tennis._  

 

“Good.” Kaidou stands, bowing again. “We’re leaving around noon, is that all right? I just found out this morning. It’s going to be three days.”

 

"Uh huh." Hmmm. It could be longer. Maybe he'll just stay after the fact, and never leave because tennis. Karupin chases after Kaidou's ankles, latching onto his socks. 

 

Nanjirou laughs at the cat’s antics, then yells, “Nanako!”

 

“I’m not your servant, Uncle,” she says sweetly, setting the teapot down hard enough that some spills onto Nanjirou’s lap.

 

“Ow! Rude! I was just asking if you knew where my—”

 

“Auntie says you’re not allowed to have your wallet until you stop spending your allowance on porn. Ryouma-kun, here, take this for the trip,” she says, handing over a few bills, “and give this to Kaidou-san’s father for the gasoline, and take these for the shinkansen if you want to stay longer. I certainly wouldn’t mind if you wanted to get away.” Whether she’s referring to the Tokyo rumors about Ryouma and Atobe or to the general fact that Nanjirou exists is anyone’s guess.

 

His cousin, at least, understands. "Thanks, Nanako." He eyeballs Karupin, still clinging firmly to Kaidou's ankles. "You have to make sure Karupin isn't lonely while I'm gone, though. Maybe I should leave him with Atobe-sempai, he has a cat, too…"

 

“Yeah, because _that_ will kill those rumors,” Nanjirou mutters, and Kaidou looks distinctly uncomfortable. 

 

“I’ll play with him every day,” Nanako promises, ruffling his hair. “I know I’m not you, but I can at least let him sleep in my room like he does when you’re in America.”

 

"Shut up, Oyaji. Yeah, that'll work," Ryouma decides, pulling gently at Karupin's tail again until he whirls around and leaps into Ryouma's lap instead. "Okay, Kaidou-sempai. We'll make this into an adventure. Hopefully, you won't end up glittery this time."

 

Kaidou flushes such a deep red it’s nearly plum-colored, and makes a hasty bow to Nanjirou before fleeing.

 

“Weird friend,” Nanjirou remarks, giving Karupin’s tail another tug and getting scratched for his troubles. “Oi! Why don’t you do that to him?”

 

"Karupin has good taste," Ryouma deadpans, hauling himself up to his feet. "I'm never coming home, Oyaji, just so you know." 

 

“Promises, promises. What should I say if _Atobe-sempai_ comes looking for you, huh?”

 

"That I'm in Osaka playing tennis with my boyfriend."

 

Nanjirou glares at him, giving his side a pinch. “Just don’t go blabbing that around. You might not care about your pro career yet, but you will later.”

 

Ryouma smacks him on reflex. "Atobe-sempai says he'll sponsor me when he takes over the company, so I don't have to worry about much once that happens."

 

“At least you’ve found something that’ll get you far in life,” Nanjirou says sarcastically, and kicks back on the sofa. “My kid, getting to the top by giving men-- _ow_.”

 

Nanako drops the book, smiling sweetly. “Why don’t you go pack, Ryouma-kun? Uncle and I are going to have a conversation.”

 

"Mm." Ryouma shoots his father a last, irritated look before scooping up Karupin and trotting back to his bedroom. 

 

"Reehneeeh."

 

"I dunno why he has to make it weird, either, Karupin," Ryouma mutters, shutting his door and setting the cat onto his bed. "He's way more gross about the girls that he chases after and the porn he buys, and he's _married_."

 

"Reehneh."

 

"Yeah, I don't think Mom would make it weird, either." Maybe Osaka is a little more like America. If Shitenhouji's team is any indication, maybe. Ryouma sighs, hauling his tennis bag out from the closet. Sometimes, he's pretty sure the only good thing about Japan is the food.

 

~

 

Kaidou has never been more thankful for his father.

 

His father, at least, doesn’t ask questions. He’s proud enough of his son being next year’s captain that he’s perfectly content to drive, listening to the news on the radio turned way down the whole way, making it easy for Kaidou to do his homework even with Hazue kicking his seat half the time. It’s even easier when he gets to the English section, since Ryouma is generous enough to cross-check his answers, something his father is very impressed with. 

 

“I’m so happy my son has a friend like you, Echizen-kun,” he says, before dropping them off at Shitenhouji. “Five pm on Thursday, boys! Play hard!”

 

“That’s the plan,” Kaidou mutters under his breath.

 

And then they’re standing in the courtyard of what looks to be an old shrine, and Kaidou looks around with a scowl. “Does _everyone_ but me live in an old shrine these days?”

 

Ryouma shrugs, hefting his tennis bag higher up on his shoulder. "Maybe. This is a really weird looking school. I didn't realize schools _could_ look like this." He has a headache from that car ride, courtesy of Kaidou's little brother, and yeah, that's enough to make him want to take the train back. "Kaidou-sempai, are you gonna go see the Homo Brigade while we're here?"

 

Kaidou hefts his bag up onto his own shoulder. “Yeah,” he admits, not looking at Ryouma. “Might be the last time for a while. They’re going to a really elite high school. Scholarships, you know?” He _might_ still be in contact with them. Half the reason Hazue is so bratty today is how furiously password-protected all of Kaidou’s devices are now, meaning no room for little brothers to sneak on and play computer games when they might see incriminating emails.

 

"Get a scholarship in tennis next year or something." Ryouma exhales a long, tired sigh, trying not to yawn again. "I've been wondering if Osaka is more like America…they seem a lot more laid back here. Maybe I should go here next year…ah, but then you'd be stuck with Momo-sempai." 

 

“I’m always stuck with him,” Kaidou says gloomily. “Seriously, if you transfer we won’t have a chance. We’ll be knocked out of District.” He shrugs, then admits, “But they do seem a lot more laid-back down here, as long as you make a joke out of it. I dunno, maybe it’s just this team.” He looks around, frowning. “Are we supposed to ring the big bell or something?” He fishes out his phone, sending off an annoyed text message.

 

"Dunno. Let's just wander around, we'll figure it out," Ryouma says, shrugging as he makes to take a step past the gate.

 

"Ah! They're here! No, _wait!_ "

 

Ryouma freezes, greeted suddenly and enthusiastically by a waving Kenya some meters away. That lasts for a second, because suddenly, Kenya is _there_. "You have to always do something _extreme_ when you come past Shitenhouji's gates, Echizen!"

 

"Yeah, I'm not gonna do that," Ryouma mutters, starting forward again.

 

"You're ruining the spirit of our school!"

 

"Kenya-sempai, you ruin more things than that," Zaizen deadpans, hands stuffed into his pockets as he rounds the corner and suddenly appears. "Yo, Kaoru." 

 

Ryouma takes that opportunity to walk right in and not give a damn.

 

“I’VE GOT IT!”

 

Kintarou is suddenly on Ryouma, on his shoulders just as he walks through the gate.

 

In response, the waiting crowd lets out a burst of applause. “Nice, Echizen!”

 

Kaidou looks up at Zaizen, and has to bite his lip. “Hikaru.” How is he supposed to think of something _extreme_ when Zaizen is looking at him like that? How is he supposed to think at _all?_

 

“Koshimae! You really came! Shiraishi said not to get my hopes up but you’re _here!”_ Kintarou doesn’t waste any time, throwing his arms around Ryouma and squeezing.

 

"You're heavy, don't do that again," Ryouma grunts, swaying from the force of Kintarou's hug. "If you mess up my shoulders, I'll end up like Tezuka-buchou." 

 

"Come on, let's see what you can do, Kaidou!" Kenya crows.

 

Zaizen heaves a long-suffering sigh. "I've got some glitter," he offers blandly. 

 

"Overused! Rejected! Zaizen, you'll never have a career in comedy!"

 

"I don't want one, Kenya-sempai." 

 

“No way, Koshimae! Not someone as strong and cool as you!” 

 

Kaidou thinks hard, but everyone he wants to see is on the _other side_ , so he’s got to get through somehow. Letting out a low hiss through his teeth, he grabs his racquet out of the bag, scraping it against the ground as he turns, faster and faster, until he gets through the gate. 

 

There’s a heartbeat of silence where he’s afraid he’ll have to _explain_ it, but then Koharu pops up behind Kenya, crowing, “Look, look! He made us a pretty picture! Kyaaa, we don’t deserve you, Kaoru-kun!”

 

The scratches on the ground sweep in a pattern, and Kintarou is the last one to get it. “It’s a lizard!”

 

“It’s a snake, Kin-chan,” Shiraishi says with a critical eye. “The kanji for snake, even. Impressive! Very extreme, Kaidou-kun!”

 

Zaizen throws glitter on it, for good measure.

 

Ryouma, certain that he's already had his fill of Shitenhouji weirdness and not enough praise for how cool he is, tugs on the sleeve of Kintarou's jersey instead. "Let's go play tennis." 

 

"Not so fast, Echizen," Kenya hums, stepping in front of him. "The fact that you want to use our courts means that you're willing to pay the fee."

 

Ryouma blinks back, immediately bored. "Okay."

 

"The fee of playing for our school next year!"

 

"Eh." Ryouma shrugs, and looks back at Kintarou. "So where are the courts?" 

 

Kintarou punches Kenya in the shoulder, hard enough to send him skidding back a few steps. “Leave him alone, Kenya! If you wanna talk you can tell him how cool he is!” He grabs Ryouma around the waist, then positively drags him off to the courts. “You can serve first, Koshimae! Your serves are awesome!”

 

Kaidou looks down at the kanji, then up at Zaizen. “How did you get it to land like that?”

 

Ryouma can't help but smirk, fixing his hat as he's hauled off. "They _are_ pretty awesome, aren't they?" 

 

Zaizen looks Kaidou dead in the eye. "Skill."

 

Kenya, having recovered from Kintarou's punch, immediately chimes: "That's our genius!"

 

"Also, I got sick of having it in my pocket." 

 

"Ahh, young love," Yuuji sighs out, draping himself on Koharu from behind. "Just _look_ at him, Koharu. They're so sweet, doesn't it remind you of us?" 

 

“So cute, Zaizen-kun and Bandana-kun!”

 

“You know my name now! Stop calling me that!”

 

“Nicknames are a sign of affection!” Koharu’s gaze sharpens, and his tone is wicked as he adds, “Ne, _Kaoru-kun?_ ” 

 

It’s not quite as intense a blush as he’d had when Zaizen referred to him that way, but Kaidou scuffs his toe through glitter nonetheless. 

 

Shiraishi claps his hands together, reasonably satisfied with the morning so far. “Right! It looks like the rookies are already...yeah, they’re definitely gone. Zaizen, Kaidou-kun, do you want to have your captain’s meeting first, and then decide what the matches will be?”

 

Zaizen shrugs, glancing over to Kaidou and waving a (somewhat glitter-coated) hand. "Sure, whatever. I guess we're using the shoebox." 

 

"Clubhouse! It's a clubhouse, you ungrateful brat!" Yuuji snaps.

 

"It's a shoebox," Zaizen repeats, deadpan, and turns to lead the way. 

 

"Kin-chan didn't even kill anyone this morning…" Kenya says, mystified. "Man, we really _do_ need to get Echizen here." 

 

“Kenya,” Shiraishi sighs, pulling him back from the Captain’s meeting, “I told you to go slow with asking him to come here. We don’t want him to think we’re just out to poach his talent from his friends.”

 

"Okay, but," Kenya says, turning back with a frown, "we kind of _are_. Also, damn, Kura, Kin-chan is _so_ calm with him around! Look how less stressed you are."

 

Shiraishi flutters a hand--it matters not. “But we decided, it was to make everyone _happier_. Ryouma-kun needs to be in a happier environment, and Kin-chan needs someone to focus all his energy on.”

 

"While we're at it, let's get Hikaru's cute boyfriend to come here, too," Yuuji chimes in. "They can be the new homo brigade!"

 

"I don't think Zaizen's into that," Kenya wryly says.

 

Yuuji looks him dead in the eye. "You don't know _anything_ about what he's into."

 

"I follow his blog!" 

 

“He needs a lot of comedy training,” Koharu says with a frown. “Good instincts, but so repressed. Kurarin, do you think he could get a scholarship?”

 

“We’re a free school,” Shiraishi reminds him.

 

“But for housing expenses! Ah, the world is cruel to young lovers!”

 

Shiraishi smiles and shakes his head. His team is weird.

 

"He could just move in with Hi~ka~ruuuu--"

 

In the clubhouse, Zaizen twitches. "Gross. I can hear them." 

 

Kaidou glowers, and locks the door for good measure. “Are they always like this? Tch, it’s their fault anyway.”

 

"Always." Zaizen flops down into a chair. "Literally always. Also, I dunno what kind of meeting they want us to have. Tennis is tennis."

 

“Maybe decide meetups?” Kaidou shrugs. “I’m not sure what kind of match they think we can have, it’s just me and Echizen and he’s...busy, I guess.” He looks down, nudging at a spot on the ground (easy to get out with the special green cleaner he has in his bag) with a toe. “I wouldn’t mind playing you.”

 

"It's good that he's busy. Kintarou's nuts when he's not around, it's weird." Zaizen's expression shifts wry. "Dunno if I wanna play you. You beat that Kirihara guy, so you sound like a lot of work."

 

Kaidou can’t even be annoyed, not after so long looking up to Fuji, to Tezuka, to the rest of them. “Tennis is a lot of work for me,” he says, elbows resting on his knees. “No matter who I’m playing. That was the hardest match I ever played.”

 

"Well, you won, didn't you?" Zaizen points out, eyebrows raising. "So the hard work paid off. Congrats and all that; you guys were about to win in straight sets if not for your weird sempai's freak out moment." 

 

“I don’t know what happened there.” Kaidou shrugs. “No one tells me and I don’t ask. But we still won, so it’s fine.”

 

"I literally have no idea what goes on around here, either, so I feel that pain." Zaizen flops forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Right, captain things. Umm…I _guess_ we could play a match? Maybe we should play a doubles match, too, against Koharu and Yuuji or something, I dunno. That sounds less good."

 

Kaidou looks down at his hands, picking at a nonexistant speck on one of his fingernails. “My captain only just started trusting me in singles again. I’ll play doubles if we can also play singles.”

 

"Che. I never get to play singles, lucky. Yeah, all right, we'll play a match." Zaizen stretches a leg out and over to poke Kaidou with one foot. "He's not gonna be your captain for much longer. Who's your vice captain gonna be, that other second year or Kintarou's wife?" 

 

Kaidou snorts. “Echizen doesn’t have a leadership bone in his body. Not much of a common sense one, either.” He swallows, and looks down at Zaizen’s foot, not really sure what to do about it, but sure that he’s supposed to do _something_. “You don’t seem nervous about being captain.”

 

"'s not like I have a choice. The only other option is Kintarou, or…well. Quitting the club." Zaizen shrugs, and drops his foot again. "I'm just not gonna have a vice captain. Naming Kintarou to that position would be the same as not having one, anyway, so there's that."

 

 _At least your captain doesn’t constantly humiliate you by telling someone else that he’s going to be the pillar of Seigaku._ “Momoshiro and I will probably fight all the time. I think that’s what Tezuka wants, for some reason.” He hesitates, then opens his tennis bag. “You have a tear in your pants,” he mutters, pulling out his sewing kit. “Put your foot back, I’ll fix it.”

 

Zaizen blinks, then shrugs, hesitantly lifting his foot back up to place it on Kaidou's knee. "You don't have to or anything." Who carries around a sewing kit like that? "…Fighting wouldn't get anywhere here, though. It only lasts a day at most between Koharu and Yuuji. The rest of the time, Shiraishi's just worrying about everything and telling me how to organize shit for next year. Like, I get it--I'm not gonna be a good captain, whatever."

 

Kaidou searches for a color-match in his thread, finds one, and threads the needle in a second, deftly twisting the end into a sewer’s knot and hiding the knot under the fabric. “I wish Tezuka-buchou would tell me more about what I’m supposed to do,” he confides. “Oishi-sempai tried, when he was acting captain, but most of that was just about finding out what everyone’s eating and changing their calorie plan. I know I could train everyone physically, but...mentally?” _Mattress stitch_ , he decides, and sets to work.

 

"I can't even do that," Zaizen wryly admits, watching with some degree of fascination at how nimble Kaidou's fingers are. Huh, didn't expect that. "Listen, don't get mad, but your captain's kind of a hikikomori. I know the type, I am one. _He_ doesn't know what the fuck he's doing." 

 

“That’s what he says,” Kaidou confirms. It’s easier to talk when his fingers have a job. Then he doesn’t feel quite so awkward, quite so useless. “He says he’s faking it most of the time. He’s just... _really good_ at faking it. I don’t think I could do it the same way.” He looks up, and meets Zaizen’s eyes briefly before returning to his task. “You could be like him. You’re confident like him. I can see people being inspired by you.”

 

"…Is not caring the same as confidence?" Zaizen supposes it is, in some weird way, but he shrugs all the same. "I dunno. I'm not like Shiraishi at all. You're good at being scary, your team'll respect you. Everyone here just wants to slap my ass, even the first years."

 

“It’s a good ass,” Kaidou says without thinking, and flushes dark red, bending over his sewing and finishing it with a triple-knot, severing the ends with a tiny pair of scissors, embossed with a bear’s smiling face on the blade. “Sorry.” The memory of that one time comes back to him, so hard he has to catch his breath. They don’t _need_ the glitter if they do it again, he thinks, though he tries so hard not to assume. He’d thought, when he’d first gotten the invitation, that it had been a cover for something else, but then the team had actually _showed up_ , so there went that plan. Maybe Zaizen just wants to forget that night. Kaidou knows he can’t.

 

Zaizen doesn't even bat an eye. "Don't apologize, everyone says it. Oh, hey, those scissors reminded me." He pulls his foot away and leans back to his locker, smacking the old thing open and reaching inside. "Took a few tries and got a lot of penguins first, but there was a gashapon machine at the arcade that had these." A single fat, stuffed polar bear dangles from one keychain as he passes it over. "Figured it was destiny or something, dunno." 

 

Kaidou’s eyes go wide, and his hand tightens on the keychain. “Th-thank you,” he stammers, and immediately fishes out his keychain, unclipping the old one, a ratty old rabbit with a dumbell in one hand that his brother had given him two birthdays ago. Ah, the polar bear is perfect, fat and cute and so pure white he has to force himself not to try and wrap it in plastic. “I didn’t get you anything,” he mumbles, ducking his head.

 

"Huh? You don't have to get me anything, it's fine." Zaizen sits back, rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. "And you fixed my pants, so that was cool. Anyway, yeah, we should get out of here, or Koharu's gonna start accusing us of making out or something…" So much for captain's meetings. Seriously, what does Shiraishi expect him to _do?_

 

Kaidou swallows. “Yeah. Let’s go.” He squeezes the bear for a moment, then puts it regretfully back into his bag, opening the door to find….

 

Nothing.

 

He scowls, looking around. “Where’d they all go? Is this some kind of a trick?” No, Echizen and Kintarou are still playing on the court in the distance, he can hear the ball being whacked back and forth among occasional explosions.

 

Zaizen stares tiredly out the door. "They're gonna do something weird. I hate when they do something weird." Which means that he hates most of his time at this school, truth be told. 

 

“Your school,” Kaidou growls, “is really stressful.” Seigaku is stressful, too. Most places seem stressful.

 

"What they fail to understand is that if they aren't here telling me to do something, I'm _going_ to go home." 

 

Kaidou shoves his hands in his pockets. “I wouldn’t blame you. I’ll make your excuses if they show up and want your participation for something.”

 

Zaizen looks sideways at him, eyebrows raised. "Seriously? Why should you stay here if there's nothing for you to do, either? Echizen and Kintarou are gonna be at it for hours, let's be real." 

 

Kaidou shrugs. “I don’t want to impose. I can always run laps.”

 

"Yeah, no," Zaizen dismisses immediately, already fishing in his pocket for their train fare. "Take a break, gym bunny, let's get out of here."

 

“I...I don’t have a gift for your family. Can we stop at a Conbini?”

 

"If you _want_ , but they're not gonna be home." _Gap moe_ , Zaizen belatedly thinks, struggling to count coins all of a sudden. _Shit. Did they leave on purpose? Shit._ "You're making it into a big deal." 

 

“Sorry. At least let me pay for the train.” Kaidou digs out the money his father had given him for the trip, neatly pressed in his wallet. “And I can get us something to eat on the way, if you know somewhere good.” _That should be enough, right? Oh god, I’m going to his house. I’ve never even been to Inui-sempai’s house._

 

This way, he doesn't have to keep attempting to count and failing. It's kinda weird, though, like a girlfriend paying for a date, but Kaidou's a guy, so does that count? Shit, Zaizen doesn't know. Maybe he should have listened to Koharu's dating advice in the past. Is this even dating? Shit. _Ugh_. "Let's just get out of here before they start blowing up things," he mutters awkwardly, shoving his hands back into his pockets and making his way towards the gate. "I live pretty close to the school, at least. It's the only reason I ever went here." 

 

“I was wondering,” Kaidou admits. “I think a school like this would give me a headache.” His _own_ school gives him a headache more often than not, to be honest, and that’s just because of all the brightly-sparkling people.

 

He follows Zaizen--at least he doesn’t walk slow, no matter how apathetic he might look--and takes note of the surroundings. “How do you deal with the heat down here?” he mutters, stripping off everything but his vest and shorts and stuffing the rest in his tennis bag.

 

"I don't move much," Zaizen dryly answers, grimacing when he hears an explosion that sounds like it's coming from Shitenhouji behind them. It's a good thing that they left when they did. "Also, our house has central air. My dad's a pussy that can't live without it, so he had it specially installed and everything. It makes everything better."

 

“I’m pretty good at handling the heat,” Kaidou says offhand, mentally judging how far, how fast he could run in this humidity. That would probably add an extra component to his workouts, and he abruptly wonders what Inui would say. 

 

Then he thinks about how voraciously Inui would be taking notes on him and Zaizen, and hurriedly tries thinking about something else. “None of the signs down here are in English,” he notes. “I usually try reading them to practice, in Tokyo.”

 

"Yeah, not as many tourists down here. We lived in Tokyo for like, four months, when I was a baby. Up in Hokkaido, then down here…" Zaizen trails off, pausing to pay for their tickets--if he does it before Kaidou can shove money at him, that's good, right? close enough--and hands Kaidou the ticket without looking at him. "My dad's work moves around a lot. We've been here for a few years now, though, so I guess it's fine. I'd rather be in Tokyo, though."

 

Kaidou stares at the ticket, then shoves his wallet back in his pocket. As usual, he’s pretty sure he’s missed something. His fingers brush against the polar bear, and he can’t help a little secret smile as he follows Zaizen through the turnstile. “Tokyo’s all right. Not where I want to live forever, but it’s fine. I can see you there.”

 

"More of a music scene," Zaizen decidedly says, leading the way up the stairs and to the platform. Good, not busy. "All the good stuff comes there, not here. You wanna be a pro, right? I figured Tokyo would be a good spot for that, too."

 

“Yeah, well, until I get my start.” It’s a dream he’s shy to share, but there’s something about Zaizen--probably the fact that he doesn’t seem to care--that makes it seem safe to confide in him. “I want...ugh, it’s gonna sound stupid. I want to build enough of a name for myself on the pro circuit, then open a training center. Or a gym for pros, something like that.” He shoves his hands in his pockets with the ticket. “Sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”

 

"Not really." Zaizen looks down at his shoes, idly toeing at a crack in the tiles. "Sounds pretty cool, and you'd be good at it. Ideas like that are why someone like Tezuka picked you out as the next captain, you know? I'm pretty sure Shiraishi just picked me because there wasn't any other option." 

 

The train rolls up with a squeal, and Zaizen waits until literally everyone is off and out of the way before hopping on and immediately sitting down. "You wanna go overseas or something? Because that's gonna make that a lot easier to do."

 

There aren’t too many people on the train, not even the usual little old lady he has to give up his seat for, and Kaidou sits, unfamiliar with the situation. “Yeah. Gonna make a lot of things easier.” That much, he hopes, can go unspoken between them.

 

He squeezes the bear inside his bag. “You remind me of Tezuka. He doesn’t think he’s a good captain either, but we all love him.”

 

Zaizen gives him a disbelieving stare. "Kintarou likes climbing me and then complains that I make a bad watch post for Koshimae because I'm too short. Does that count?" 

 

“You never know what next year’s first-years will be like. Definitely never expected Echizen and Kintarou, huh?”

 

"Could've done without. Seriously, would _you_ want another Kintarou?" 

 

“With that win-loss record? Looking at our team next year, I wouldn’t say no.” Kaidou grimaces. “I wish our first nationals win ever hadn’t happened right before I became captain. That’s a hell of a lot to live up to, and almost the whole team is graduating.”

 

"Eh, you can't look at it like that. You played in the finals the year that Rikkai's winning streak was broken." Zaizen shrugs, rocking to his feet when the train announces its next stop. "If Chitose gets held back a year, then we might be good, but otherwise, we're in the same boat as you. Shishigaku's just gonna win everything down here again." 

 

“And the Kantou will go back to Rikkai,” Kaidou says gloomily. “You going pro in high school? Or are you gonna focus on your music?”

 

"Rikkai's just a tennis mill, so whatever. At least none of us will suck as much as Hyoutei will." That makes Zaizen almost laugh, and he hops off the train. "I've never thought about going pro, though. Don't think I'm good enough, besides. 'Genius' is kind of a stupid word to throw around like everyone does."

 

“I thought it just meant you were good without having to work,” Kaidou mutters. Really, only two stops? That distance wouldn’t have counted as one of his morning jogs. Probably not even as one of the jogs he does at recess time. How the hell is Zaizen not completely atrophied from lack of muscle stimulation? “You were on one of the best four teams in the country without having to work. I saw your tournament record.”

 

"Don't really wanna work at it that much," Zaizen admits, leading the way up the stairs only because the escalator is too packed. "People that work harder are gonna be better as time goes on, so I'll leave the pro circuit to people like you."

 

“Then...can I hear some of your music?” The fact that Zaizen so casually affirms some of Kaidou’s life mottos makes him instantly friendlier. Unlike his own sempai that are geniuses, Zaizen at least appears to know that such things have their limit. “Do you have some at your house?”

 

"…Sure, if you really wanna hear it." Zaizen shrugs awkwardly. Shit. Shit, it's easier to talk about tennis, tennis isn't…obtrusive. "You won't like it, though. You like traditional stuff."

  

“It can’t be weirder than the stuff Inui-sempai makes me listen to,” Kaidou says, shrugging. “Or my brother.” Hazue is going through a phase where he listens to anything his friends listen to, which mostly means candy-colored girls with big breasts singing high-pitched songs very quickly.

 

"Yeah, sure." His house is only two blocks from the station, thank god, because it's _hot_ and he's tired of moving. Zaizen steps up onto the porch of a two story stand-alone, fishes out his key, and opens the door to a rush of cold air. "Here we go. Oh, thank god, Kaasan left the air on…"

 

Kaidou lets out a long sigh of relief. “God,” he groans, taking off his shoes and bandana and wiping his forehead, “I haven’t been this properly cool since March.” It’s a little intoxicating, and he takes a long minute to just breathe before he looks around. “You have a lovely home,” he says automatically. “Dammit, I was going to buy dinner, I forgot in the heat.”

 

"S'okay, we can raid the fridge," Zaizen says, kicking his own shoes aside. "There's juice there, too, and some sports drinks and stuff. We'll be alone until pretty late, my mom just left to visit my brother up in Ibaraki, and my dad's working weird hours. Were you guys staying in a hotel while you're here in Osaka, or what?"

 

“My dad and brother are staying with a family friend. Your sempai told me I could stay in one of the dormitories.” _Only way we could afford to make the trip._ He bows before properly entering, and steps into the living room. “And I think Echizen is...probably going to sleep wherever he and Kintarou fall down after playing until they’re exhausted.”

 

"Gross, you don't wanna stay with Koharu and Yuuji. Just crash here." Shit, wait. Is that too forward? Ugh, what does he even care. Zaizen wanders in the kitchen briefly, grabbing a couple of drinks and a few bags of chips from a cabinet. "Come on, let's go upstairs. It's even _colder_ in my room." 

 

Kaidou breathes a sigh of relief. “Thanks. I mean, I’m very grateful to them,” he says hurriedly. “I’m just...not sure I’m up for another takoyaki party. Not yet.” There had been _so_ much glitter. It was probably one of the best experiences of his life, but also one of the more traumatizing. An annual event, if anything, he decides.

 

"They're _so_ gross," Zaizen agrees immediately, leading the way up the stairs. "Also, you never know when it's going to be a _takoyaki_ party, or a takoyaki _party_. Koharu's a good cook, but sometimes it's the kind of party that doesn't have cooking and instead has lots of weird noncon glitter." He opens his bedroom door, kicks a few books out of the way, and throws his bag haphazardly to the side. "Make yourself at home." 

 

Kaidou’s eyes widen, and he has to work not to flinch. It’s not a clean room, and he instinctively clenches his hands as they twitch, wanting to get to work. Instead of that, he bows, announces, “I’m coming in,” and looks for a chair to sit on, then sits on the floor instead. “That’s...a _lot_ of high-tech stuff. Is it all for music?” Listening to other people talk about something they love is about a hundred times better than talking himself, Kaidou learned long ago.

 

"Ah, yeah." Zaizen unveils a chair underneath a pile of school uniforms, and flops down into it, flipping his computer on. "I've got a switch board for all my speakers now, just set it up the other day. _And_ a fresh hookup for my keyboard and everything, so the quality's a lot better when I upload everything to my blog and Nico. Who knows, maybe I'll get picked up by a label for a Vocaloid cover. Kenya-sempai keeps promoting my stuff, ever since I made him internet famous." He pauses, realizing how much he just rattled off, and slinks back into his chair a bit. 

 

Kaidou’s eyes narrow as he looks at the setup. “Mm. From the things I’ve seen, I bet your team would get a lot of views. They love doing crazy things.” He doesn’t mention that he mainly watches workout videos on Youtube.

 

"…I don't want to give them any more encouragement," Zaizen darkly says. "The whole _school_ is like that; the team doesn't need to feel special." 

 

Kaidou snorts. “I don’t know if I could handle it. A few crazy characters are enough for me to handle.” He looks around, then picks up a somewhat obscure-looking piece of equipment gingerly. “Should this really be on the ground?”

 

"Eh, it's fine, it's not gonna die down there. Your school is weirder, in a way. What's up with that Fuji guy?" 

 

“Another genius,” Kaidou grumbles. “He used to say that the only thing he liked better than suffering was watching other people suffer. He acts like a girl sometimes, it gives me the creeps.”

 

"Are you sure he's _not_ a girl? He looks like one, and his uh…doubles partner…" 

 

Kaidou glares at the ground a little. “He’s not.” Then, as if to explain himself, he asks, “Don’t Shitenhouji all shower together?”

 

"Well, yeah, but I dunno, I thought you guys might have some weird rule that lets rich girls play on your team if they're good enough." 

 

“We don’t care that much about money. We’re not _Hyoutei_ ,” Kaidou scoffs. “Have you played them?”

 

"No, but they were at all of our matches at Nationals, watching." Zaizen snorts. "What a joke. What's up with their captain? Koharu's got a thing for him, it makes Yuuji lose sleep at night." 

 

“He’s the richest asshole in Japan and he likes to show it off.” Kaidou runs a hand through his hair, nice and cool with the bandana off and the air on. “I think Tezuka thinks he’s funny.”

 

Heh, sweet. This sounds like gossip he can use as a bargaining tool with Koharu, because bargaining tools mean finding new ways to skip practice. "So is it true, then?" he casually asks. "Are they dating?" 

 

“I dunno,” Kaidou responds, one eyebrow raised. “Are you gonna put it on your blog?”

 

Zaizen rolls his eyes. "I'm not _that_ much of an ass. I didn't talk about the takoyaki party, did I?" 

 

“No,” Kaidou admits. “I’m just protective of him, I guess…” He hisses through his teeth--but if Zaizen didn’t put up the takoyaki party (and he didn’t, Kaidou’s been stalking his blog), then maybe what he wants is real, and Zaizen can be trusted. “Yeah. I mean, they didn’t tell me or anything, but I just have to look at them, you know?”

 

"Figured." Yeah, this is definitely gonna be a great bargaining tool later. "You've got one hell of a gaydar, though," he idly notes, attention briefly turned towards his computer monitor (one of three) as he checks his e-mail. "You'd fit right in at Shitenhouji. If you transfer here, you can still be captain." 

 

“I’ve always been...able to tell. Not that it’s done me much good. Mostly it means I fall for guys with hot boyfriends.” Kaidou can’t quite help looking over his shoulder, just to make _sure_ there are no inquisitive little siblings. It hardly seems real, to be able to talk about it without fear. “Can’t go that far away for school. Can’t afford it.”

 

" _That's_ your excuse? Not, 'I've gotta stay at Seigaku, it's my duty'?" Zaizen wryly returns, eyebrows raised. "Scholarship apps go 'till the end of September, you know. Apply, they're tennis hungry now." 

 

Kaidou grunts. “Thought you’d like the other argument better. Most people don’t want to hear about honor and duty.” _Momoshiro_.

 

"Just seemed weird for you, is all. And fair warning, _everyone's_ trying to poach that first year of yours."

 

“That’s _his_ duty’s problem.” Kaidou slumps back against the wall. “I wouldn’t even blame him. Our team isn’t going to be much next year. I bet they’re all dying to have him at Shitenhouji, right?” Just for a minute, he considers being captain of a team that all seems to genuinely love each other, where they’re all absurdly comfortable, where no one hides who they are. “Maybe he should go here. _He_ can afford it.”

 

"The amount you're spending to go to Seigaku probably is more than just dorm housing here. The school's free." Zaizen resists the urge to go hunting for concrete numbers online. No, that's stupid. If Kaidou doesn't want to, he doesn't want to, but he's _pretty sure_ that Kaidou wants to. "To be fair, though, I'd still be a shitty vice captain." 

 

“You’d be better than Momoshiro. _Anyone_ would. All he cares about is hamburgers and pretty girls. Useless.” No, he’s not considering it. Tezuka would _hate_ him. That matters. He’s _sure_ it does.

 

"Not sure if that was a compliment or not…" Zaizen muses, leaning back in his chair and distractedly reaching up to fiddle with one earring. "You'd have to deal with Kintarou, though. Maybe Chitose, if he's held back. Imagine if it were Kintarou _and_ that Echizen kid. They're like, married already and everything." 

 

“They remind me of Tezuka and Atobe, a little.” Kaidou frowns, fiddling with the edge of his bandana. “Tell me. If Echizen did transfer here, would things be...easier for him? Than in Tokyo? With Kintarou, I mean.”

 

Zaizen thinks, then shrugs. "Probably. Maybe. Everyone kinda laughs it off here, you know? Dumb hicks and all that, that's what people think everyone from Osaka is. Seems like everyone's a lot nicer here, though, if you ask me, even about the homo thing. I don't care that much because _I'm_ usually rude, but I could tell the difference in Tokyo. I know it got Shiraishi flustered a few times, just in general." 

 

“Everyone cares a lot there. About most things.” Kaidou frowns, thinking. “Shiraishi, really? Not about...no, I can usually tell, but he’s hard to read like that.” There’s something wistful in his tone, but not for Shiraishi. “Osaka sounds nice.”

 

"Eh, Shiraishi just gets flustered in general. I dunno if he's homo or not, I don't ask and he takes my phone away a lot." Zaizen stretches out a leg, and pokes at Kaidou's shoulder with his toes. "Seriously, there are scholarships. Apply and stuff, what's really stopping you?" 

 

Kaidou tries to think of his reasons when Zaizen’s touching him, even just with a foot, even just his shoulder. There’s his family, but he’ll be going away someday anyway, and if he can get a scholarship, there’s no problem. There’s his promise to Tezuka--but if Ryouma leaves to go pro, like he probably will, there’s no _team_ , and Tezuka wouldn’t want him to give up a chance, probably. If there were a scholarship, that would be even less of a burden on his family than the tuition for Seigaku. 

 

All of that doesn’t really compare to the idea of going to a school where he doesn’t have to run 30 kilometers a day just to keep a small percentage of the thoughts away.

 

“I’ll apply.” His mouth is dry when he says it. “Don’t expect me to get anything, I’m not a perfect student or anything.”

 

Zaizen's not sure why that makes him feel so _relieved_. "Yeah, well, trust me, most people aren't Koharu and Yuuji. All the classes are weird here, it drives me nuts." He flops back, letting his foot slide down Kaidou's arm before he pulls it away. "Like I said, it's the tennis that'll do it. I'll tell Shiraishi to put in a word for you, I'm sure he'd be thrilled." 

 

Kaidou swallows hard. “Do you have a foot thing?” he asks, looking up into Zaizen’s face. Ah, shit, Zaizen is _so_ pretty. It’s easy to forget when they’re looking in different directions and just talking. “You keep touching me with your feet.”

 

"My legs are longer, it's easier than getting up." Zaizen, entirely unfazed by the question, just looks vaguely amused. "Why, do you?" 

 

Kaidou shakes his head, shifting slightly in his seat, to be expected after so long in seiza. “Feet are usually pretty gross. People don’t pay enough attention to them in the shower.”

 

"Fair enough. You're kinda OCD, aren't you?" Zaizen spares a glance at his bed, cluttered with his tennis bag and laundry--then at the floor, cluttered similarly, but with bags from CD stores and book stores--and then at his desk, with soda cans and other assorted messes. Whoops. "You're trying not to jump out of a window right now, aren't you." 

 

Kaidou grimaces, and admits, “Trying to figure out how rude it would be to ask if I can clean it.”

 

"…Well, I'm not gonna tell you _no…_ " Zaizen exhales a breath, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I mean, I was just gonna throw the stuff off the bed so we could make out on it, but if you wanna clean first, that's fine, too." 

 

Kaidou looks around frantically, trying to think of a compromise. “How about if I just clean off the bed?” he suggests, and before Zaizen can answer, he’s already moving, whipping cloth into brisk folds, sorting trash by recyclability, filing papers almost faster than he can read them. It only takes a few minutes, and Kaidou almost doesn’t notice that he’s made the bed as well before he turns around, itching fingers finally a little sated. “Much better.”

 

Zaizen stares. "You're way too good at that. It's kind of weird. Shit, I hope the roommate you end up with isn't like me." 

 

“I don’t mind messy people as long as they don’t mind me cleaning.” Kaidou shrugs. “It gives me something to do. Does Shitenhouji have a good supply of hot water? That’s pretty important.”

 

"I think so? The only time I heard about it running out was this time that Kintarou literally left a shower on all day, and it flooded the whole gym. Somehow." Zaizen hauls himself up from his chair, hesitating before he reaches out to touch a strand of Kaidou's hair. "It's pretty. Don't get to see much of it because of your bandanas," he awkwardly notes. "It's more of that hidden gap moe thing, I think." 

 

Kaidou freezes for a minute. No, he doesn’t have to turn around and look behind him, he reminds himself, and it’s not a trick. He still remembers the softness of Zaizen’s mouth--chapped lips, a sly tongue, nipping teeth--and the way his skin had tasted on his belly, his palms when Kaidou’d gotten too loud. “I’m not cute,” he mutters, because if there’s one thing he knows for sure, it’s that he’s nothing like adorable. He’s spent years secretly collecting cute things; he’s something of an expert.

 

His own hand comes up, fingertips tracing over the metal rings in Zaizen’s ear. He’d wanted to touch them the last time, but there had been so much going on. He’d never gotten the chance. “Did these hurt? Do they now?” The back of his hand brushes against Zaizen’s cheek, and he tries not to breathe harder at that.

 

It's different when Koharu and Yuuji aren't here, that's for sure. Yuuji's always kind of hyper and eager and good at _everything_ , and Koharu's always got something in mind and calls all the shots. Apparently, he gets to call the shots now, and that's a mix of overwhelming and exhilarating and shit, shit, he's not that good at being cool and suave and all that. Mostly, he's good at being the weird music geek that isn't that thrilled about being good at One Gay Sport. 

 

"They hurt when I got them," Zaizen admits, "but they don't hurt now. That's, uh. Kind of why I kept getting them." That's a somewhat sheepish addition, but hey, Kaidou might as well know how weird he really is. His own fingers slide back through Kaidou's hair, then along the back of his neck. "And I dunno. I think you're cute." 

 

Kaidou shivers down to his toes in a long, continuous shudder. He’d thought for a fleeting second last time that maybe, maybe venting that desire would help to get it out of his system. Instead, it had been even worse the whole time since, and he’s been _craving_ more of the same. 

 

For a minute, he misses Koharu and Yuuji. They’d known what to do the whole time, and had never made him feel stupid for not knowing, delighting in their teachable moment. Now, he supposes it’s up to him. 

 

He shuffles a little closer, eyes locked on Zaizen’s, head tipping back into those fingers. “You like it when things hurt?” It’s an honest question, asked in curiosity. “All things, or just those?”

 

"…Most things?" Zaizen hedges. Ah, shit. Shit. The urge to reach for his phone and text Koharu and ask him _how do I do this, exactly, be very specific, it's easier when you're here_ is very strong. "I dunno. To be honest, I haven't…it's mostly been a few times with _those two_ , you know?" 

 

He decides to be brave about it, and grabs Kaidou by the arm, tugging him over to the bed that almost looks too neat to mess up. Almost. "And once with Kenya-sempai in a shower, but I don't think that counts," he mutters. "So, sorry if nothing's all that good." 

 

Kaidou shakes his head, honestly grateful. “The takoyaki party was my first time,” he admits in a rush. “I didn’t think any of you would want to see me again after.” He lets himself be tugged down, and deliberately sits closer to Zaizen, hands coming to rest on his shoulders. Yes, they feel good there, and as much as Zaizen claims to hate working, there’s some lean muscle on his frame.

 

“Can I…” He tries not to bite or lick his lips. “I want to…” _Touch. Kiss. Feel like last time._

 

"Yeah, okay." Zaizen is pretty sure he's got this much down pat. It's why he suggested it in the first place, and scooting closer makes it easier to just wrap his hands up in Kaidou's hair and pull him close. If they're kissing, they don't have to talk about logistics, and that's the best thing of all. 

 

Zaizen's just glad that he remembered correctly about what Kaidou's mouth felt like--surprisingly soft, really, really pliant and easy to kiss, and it already sets a shiver down his spine when he gets his teeth on Kaidou's lower lip to gently tug. 

 

Kaidou lets out a noise, urgent, desperate, and lunches forward, shoving his mouth further against Zaizen’s. It takes effort to go slow, but Kaidou is appreciating every tiny movement, every minuscule swipe, ever—

 

Then Zaizen’s teeth set to his lips, and Kaidou groans.

 

He pushes Zaizen down to the bed, kissing him deeply, not moving apart from that, just tasting Zaizen’s mouth, remembering the taste of that cheap gum and something else, metallic and secretive. If just one kiss is enough to make him feel like this again, he thinks dazedly, imagining what more will do is enough to make him whimper.

 

Moments like this make Zaizen remember that shit, Kaidou is _strong_ , and it takes some serious effort on his part to lurch upward and kiss back, his breath hot and ragged when he finally manages to pull back for more than a second--and that's only because his tongue piercing comes just shy of catching against Kaidou's lip, whoops. "Fuck, sorry," Zaizen mutters, wiping his mouth. "I forgot. I'll take it out." It's not his fault he's not the _best_ at kissing with that thing yet. If he had more practice, sure, he'd be _amazing_. 

 

“Don’t.” Kaidou’s voice is low and breathy, and he kisses Zaizen again, _knowing_ what it is now, tongue delving deeper. God, Zaizen is so hot, all modern music and tantalizing piercings and casual disaffection, and it takes an effort of will to believe that he’s actually _here_ , that Kaidou, awkward, clumsy, frightening-looking Kaidou actually has some kind of permission to touch him. “I like it,” he murmurs, stretching out over Zaizen’s body, sucking in a breath through his nose when his lips find Zaizen’s again.

 

_Did I actually just score points?_

 

Shit, he's pretty sure he did. Cool, then. Yeah, whatever, no big deal, Zaizen tries to tell himself, to not get overexcited that Kaidou's actually _into it_. Kaidou's not weirded out like most Japanese people in general, not squicked and constantly concerned about infections and his health like Shiraishi, but…

 

Yeah, all right. 

 

Zaizen sucks in a ragged breath through his nose as he drags a hand down Kaidou's back, nails raking down his spine when he arches up to kiss back harder, a groan caught up in his throat when Kaidou sucks on his tongue and kind of makes his eyes roll back into his head. "You _sure_ that was your first time?" he rasps. _You don't kiss like it was._

 

“Think I’d remember,” Kaidou grunts, eyes rolling back into his head when Zaizen’s nails, ah, they’re _sharp_ , and Kaidou likes that a lot more than he thinks he’s supposed to. That piercing is maddening, flicking out at him when he least expects it, urging him to look harder, to seek deeper, and he’s only too content to obey.

 

The only problem with laying on Zaizen is that he doesn’t realize for a minute that he’s sort of laying _on_ Zaizen, and he’s not exactly light. Is that right? He can’t quite remember from last time, and he shifts to try and plant his arms and legs to the sides on the bed, lifting some of his weight.

 

That has the slight issue of dragging the hardness between his legs against Zaizen’s, and Kaidou sucks in a strangled noise. Zaizen had only said _make out_ , not anything more. He pulls back, lips shiny and wet, and drags a thumb over Zaizen’s lips, still not sure he’s really _here_. “Too much?” he rasps.

 

"Hell no." Zaizen shoves himself up onto an elbow, his tongue dragging over the tip of Kaidou's thumb before he sucks it hungrily into his mouth, eyes lidded when he finally lets it go with a scrape of his teeth. "We already did a lot of weird shit," he mutters, one hand clawing its way up Kaidou's back again to get his fingers all wrapped up into his hair, "so we can do whatever we want now." 

 

That being said--the stuff Koharu and Yuuji like to do might be fun, but…small doses. Mostly, Zaizen likes being able to shove Kaidou onto his side (with some serious effort, jesus christ he's _solid_ ) and wriggle up next to him, sighing out a breath through his nose when their hips grind up close. "You feel _good_ , Kaoru."

 

Kaidou lets his eyes close, then forces them open again, because damned if he’s not going to remember every possible second of this. Zaizen is _gorgeous_ , like something out of a magazine that he’d never be able to see in real life, like most of the men Kaidou falls hard for only to realize that of course they’re taken, why wouldn’t they be taken? 

 

But for some reason, this one is here, with him, and he’s _going_ to remember every second of it.

 

He stretches out, letting one hand sling low over Zaizen’s waist, spreading out on his lower back to tug him closer for every languid motion of their hips. “God,” he groans, and yeah, he probably shouldn’t be so turned on just by hearing his own name. This is startlingly intimate, somehow even intimate with all of their clothes on, and it’s odd that it should feel like that after the last time. After all, this is just kissing, just laying there, but something about it….

 

“Just wanna do this for a while,” he mutters, and kisses him again, rubbing up harder every time his tongue flicks over that piercing.

 

"Same," Zaizen breathes, wriggling closer and slinging a leg over Kaidou's hip. Yeah, that's one of his better decisions. It's easy to stay close like that, to feel that tense, aching heat between them, and fuck, that's good. His cock aches with every slow roll of his hips, and Kaidou's tongue dragging occasionally over his piercing is just as bad, if not worse, like someone's pushing a button that makes his cock twitch every fucking time. 

 

Maybe he's weird (he knows he's weird), but he also likes the way that he can dig his nails into Kaidou's back and feel every flex and shiver of his muscles when he does that. "Shit," Zaizen mutters between kisses, "you're really hot, that's not fair." He's pretty sure he didn't sign up for this. How did this even _happen_ , was this Koharu's fault again? 

 

It takes Kaidou a long, kiss-drenched minute to even process the words, they’re so nonsensical to him. _Hot?_  

 

The confusion probably shows on his face, but damned if he wants to pull back and question it now. Maybe Zaizen just has poor vision like most of the people on their teams, Kaidou’s heard rumors that being farsighted makes someone better at tennis. 

 

But to interrupt now with something like _everyone just says I have a scary face and I agree_ just sounds petty and pathetic. _Just take the compliment, loser,_ a voice says in his head, and for once, he listens.

 

It might have something to do with the way Zaizen is rubbing up against him, the way his nails are pricking into Kaidou’s back, the way his mouth is like water and Kaidou’s been thirsty all his life. He wishes he were better with words--could tell Zaizen that he’s beautiful, he’s sexy, he’s all the things Kaidou has always wanted to say to a man, but his tongue isn’t just occupied, it’s _tied_ , frozen by the awkwardness of it all. 

 

_Fuck it. If there’s ever a situation where actions speak louder than words…_

 

Kaidou pulls Zaizen in hard, one hand raking through short dark hair, the other slung low on his back, slipping down to squeeze and knead that perfect ass. “God, I can’t blame them,” he breathes, thinking of Zaizen’s teammates, hoping the other boy will know what he means.

 

Zaizen arches with a hiss of breath, his pulse jumping up a notch and shit, yeah, okay, that's good, that's a lot different than everyone just slapping him because they _can_. Kaidou's hands are strong, too, apparently, and that's _really_ nice, especially when he's grabbing an edge too hard and Zaizen's just _not_ gonna tell him that because he likes it an awful lot. 

 

Instead, he answers by hauling Kaidou down into another kiss, all teeth and eager flicks of his tongue, his breath hitching raggedly when his piercing catches and gets pulled on and ah, shit, his cock is way too hard for him to see straight now. "Can I?" Zaizen mindlessly asks, one hand already shoving between them, grabbing at the fastenings of Kaidou's shorts. He's never felt like he's going to die if he doesn't have someone's cock to grab at until right now, but there's a first time for everything, he guesses. 

 

The words of eager assent stick in Kaidou’s throat, and he just nods dumbly, unable to think of how to make the words that mean _yes, God, yes._

 

He’s lightheaded with just the idea of being here with Zaizen, and the actual truth of it is so much better, so much _bigger_ , so much more than he ever could have imagined lying with a boy and kissing could be.

 

He takes Zaizen’s grabbing as some kind of permission, because if he doesn’t he’s probably going to explode. One hand still kneads at his ass, and the other slips down the waistband of his pants, ignoring the tightness of them in his desperate, _important_ mission, hand curling and trembling at the same time. “P-please,” he rasps, tilting his head to mouth at Zaizen’s neck, breath hot on the other boy’s skin. He’s so hard it hurts, and his hands aren’t gentle.

 

Shit, it's kind of dumb how good this is.

 

Zaizen can think back to all the times he's gotten off _pretty_ hard and _pretty_ decently, but the build-up didn't feel like this at all, even though his hands are kind of shaky and fumbling when he gets his own fly down, too, and that makes it a lot easier for Kaidou to grab wherever he wants when his own fingers are pretty fucking busy. 

 

Kaidou's cock fits easily in his grasp, like it's supposed to be there, and _damn_ , he's hard. Zaizen sucks in a ragged breath through his nose at that, and his own hips rut forward when he bites at Kaidou's neck, unthinking when his hand can squeeze and stroke, his fingers quickly becoming slick and sticky. "Fuck," he breathes, his eyes fluttering shut, his mouth more teeth than lips whenever he finds skin. "Fuck, _Kaoru_ \--" 

 

“ _Hikaru_ —”

 

Kaidou almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, but he doesn’t care right now, not when this is all a hell of a lot hotter than it should be. Somehow, sweaty, awkward foreplay followed by clumsy grabs at his cock are getting him harder and hotter than everything that had happened at the party--and there had been _so much_. This is still better, and when Zaizen’s fly opens (right, smart, he’s so _dumb_ when his dick is hard), it’s with a grateful hiss that Kaidou gets his hand around Zaizen’s cock properly, rubbing his thumb over the head to get it sticky before wrapping around the shaft in quick, rough pulls. 

 

He almost protests that he’d just gotten over those love bites on his neck, but to hell with it, he’s got a scarf now. His hand leaves Zaizen’s ass, coming back up to his hair to wrench his head back— “Sorry, sorry—” before kissing him again, rough and insistent as he lurches forward, coming as hard as he ever remembers in his life against Zaizen’s deft fingers. “ _Hikaru_ ,” he gasps again, trying, _trying_ to keep his eyes open and remember.

 

Apologies are really best left for people that aren't pushing all his fucking buttons just right.

 

That's not something he can say right now, though, and so Zaizen just groans against Kaidou's mouth, kissing him hard and sloppy and _desperately_ when he grinds forward against Kaidou's hand, shoving himself into those long, perfect fingers, his own hand squeezing and stroking with every pulse of Kaidou's cock. 

 

When _he_ comes, it's all with one long, trembling shudder, spilling slick and messy over Kaidou's hand, and fuck, he can't _breathe_. Every inhale catches up in his throat, doesn't quite make it to his lungs, and Zaizen flops forward limply, shivering when he wriggles and that makes him rub up against the palm of Kaidou's hand again. "Shit," he groans, hooking his chin over Kaidou's shoulder. "I think I've been doing sex wrong." 

 

Kaidou bites back another moan, nuzzling into Zaizen’s neck instead. It’s not easy to get his breath back, and he nods in wordless agreement of the sentiment. Every time Zaizen’s cock twitches against him, his own gives an answering twitch, and that’s just distracting, especially when he can _feel_ the mess dripping through his fingers, and can’t help but think of how the last time, he’d…

 

He swallows hard, pulls back slightly, and asks, low-voiced and more eager than he wants to be, “Can I...I don’t know if you can again after, but I want to—” He licks his lips, eyes tracking down to Zaizen’s open shorts, and he lets out a soft groan just at the thought of having his mouth where his hand is.

 

Zaizen doesn't really think. Hormones have a way of taking over, he supposes, and that's all well and good when Kaidou's obviously pretty eager. He's already got one hand in Kaidou's hair, besides, and it's easy enough to tug and start pushing him down. "You really are OCD, aren't you," he mutters, voice still breathy around the edges, "Kaoru- _chan_." 

 

That doesn’t really process for a second, but maybe that’s just because Kaidou’s dick is still hard. When he gets it, he bites back a moan at the idea, nodding as he lets himself be shoved down, nuzzling against Zaizen’s abs as he pulls down his shorts. “Yeah. You want me to--clean it up?” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, looking up at Zaizen’s face as he lowers his mouth, dragging it along sticky flesh.

 

One of his better ideas, really. Zaizen's mouth goes dry, and he just settles for nodding for a second, his fingers tightening in Kaidou's hair and his tongue flicking out to wet his lower lip. He's not really hard again yet, but that doesn't stop Kaidou's mouth from feeling really fucking good. "Y-yeah. All of it, make sure you don't miss a drop." 

 

 _God_.

 

Kaidou’s hands brace on Zaizen’s thighs, and he nods mindlessly before moving, lapping at every messy spot he sees. He starts around the base, at the top of his thighs where there’s a stray smear, a random droplet, then moves slowly until he’s mouthing over the head of his cock, the musky, bitter taste of it going right to his cock. That’s something he’d learned about himself, at that takoyaki party.

 

There’s _never_ enough of it for him.

 

He tongues the slit in the head, and when the half-hard cock is entirely clean, he starts licking his hand, cleaning it off as he’d been instructed, determined not to miss a drop. The filthy noises coming from his mouth don’t even bother him, not when all he can think is that heady scent, and it’s not long before he can’t stop himself from turning back to Zaizen’s cock and covering it again with his mouth.

 

The noises get to Zaizen more than anything, and it _really_ doesn't take long for him to get hard again with that in mind. 

 

Kaidou sounds like an AV star. He's not sure if he should tell the other boy that, but damn, it's kind of uncanny, and really, _really_ hot. Zaizen exhales a long, shuddering breath, and wraps both of his hands up into Kaidou's hair, tugging his head back for just a moment. "You like the taste a lot, don't you?" he mutters, and swallows hard when the head of his cock presses against Kaidou's bruised lips, already sticky again, and he blames Kaidou for that entirely. "If you do it right, you'll get to taste even more." 

 

That promise shouldn’t make Kaidou as hard as it does.

 

He mouths over the head of Zaizen’s cock gratefully, hungrily, sloppy and eager and forgetting to breathe half the time. It’s like something from the vast majority of his fantasies, being allowed to lick and suck as much as he wants--and he wants a _lot_. 

 

Dimly, in the back of his mind, he thinks he should probably ask Zaizen more about what _he_ wants, what _he_ likes. Right now, all he can focus on is the thick fluid dripping out of the end, and he can’t help but let out a whine at the taste as it smears over his tongue. His hands steal back, grabbing handfuls of Zaizen’s ass just to pull him closer and let him take even more, eyes rolling back into his head when he gets his mouth around all of it, bumping at the back of his throat.

 

Zaizen is pretty sure the only other time his cock has been sucked _this_ enthusiastically was the _last_ time with Kaidou at that takoyaki party.

 

His breath leaves him in a rush when Kaidou just swallows all of it, and Zaizen's fingers can't help but tighten up into Kaidou's hair, scraping against his scalp. "Good," he rasps, his voice breaking on a groan when his hips roll forward, because god, it feels good to just be able to fuck into the slick, wet heat of the other boy's mouth. "God, you're good at that." _I am so going to film this next time_ he dazedly thinks, because he's pretty sure he _needs_ this on video, with Kaidou's face flushed and hungry and his lips wrapped around his cock like he's going to die if he doesn't have more. 

 

Kaidou barely hears him. 

 

His world narrows to the way Zaizen’s cock tugs on his lips when it slides into his mouth, the taste that slowly fills his senses with every swipe of his tongue over the head, and the thick, invasive feeling of something shoving down his throat. That, he’s sure in some sparkling moment of clarity, is all that matters.

 

Zaizen thrusts into his mouth, and he suddenly realizes he’s so hard he’s leaking, and it just gets worse when there’s someone thrusting into his mouth. He looks up through watering eyes, blinking until he can see Zaizen’s face clearly, and that just draws another muffled, wet moan around his cock. His hips move in unconscious little circles, rubbing slowly off against the bed as he sucks, so secondary to the cock in his mouth it’s almost laughable.

 

No one should be allowed to blame him for wanting one of these, like…once a day. At least. 

 

It's literally something straight out of an ero game, because AVs with real people just don't have this kind of shit. Fuck, he's definitely scored, and that makes Zaizen's breath stutter, his hands grip tightly at Kaidou's hair to hold him still when his hips roll forward, when he gives into the urge to _really_ just fuck his mouth because it's pretty obvious that Kaidou loves it. 

 

It's not like he can make it last that much longer, anyway, so he might as well make it _good_. 

 

Zaizen wishes he was better at dirty talk at moments like this, but he's not sure it would work, anyway. It's hard to do anything but pant and groan when he's using Kaidou's mouth like that, and he's pretty sure his mouth shuts right the fuck off when he's buried in as far as he can and the way that Kaidou swallows around him rips away what's left of his control. "Kaoru--" That's as much warning as Zaizen can manage before he spills, hot and slick and flooding Kaidou's mouth, his fingers trembling and white-knuckled as they hold Kaidou in place to make sure he swallows it all. 

 

The fact that Zaizen’s hands are holding him down, forcing him to swallow--as if he wouldn’t _anyway_ \--is what draws a hard, desperate whimper from Kaidou’s throat. 

 

The taste fills his mouth, and he shudders, pleasure sparking through his body as he swallows, feeling it slide down his throat like the filthiest, best thing he’s ever tasted, thick and bitter and humiliating in a way that makes him shudder, makes his toes curl. He sucks on the head until he’s _sure_ there isn’t any more, then laves the softening shaft with his tongue, cleaning up any stray drops. Then his head flops to the side, resting on Zaizen’s thigh as he licks his lips and catches his breath. “Thanks,” he pants, wiping his mouth with one hand as he looks up, cheeks flushed, chest heaving.

 

"Shouldn't I…be thanking you…or something?" Zaizen dimly manages, his head rolling back as he gulps in a long breath of air. " _Fuck_ , Kaoru. You're way too good at that." 

 

Kaidou’s hand comes up to Zaizen’s other thigh, absently petting and stroking. “I like it,” he admits, voice still rough and husky. “I’ll do it whenever you want.” Yeah, he definitely needs to transfer schools.

 

He's definitely asleep right now and this is definitely a dream. _Isn't_ this the dream of every hormonal teenager? Shit, and here his brother told him hikikomoris never got anything in life. "Can I like…record it next time? Just--for when you're not here…and stuff." Zaizen swallows hard. "You just look really good when you're doing it." 

 

Kaidou shifts, his cock twitching hard at that comment. “As long as I don’t have to watch it or anything,” he mutters. “Whatever, go ahead.” The idea of Zaizen touching himself to _him_ when he’s away…he swallows hard. “Would you really do that? When I’m not here?”

 

"Um, yeah. I'd skip practice for that shit." He probably will, actually. Right now, though, Zaizen settles for hauling Kaidou up and kissing him again, pretty content to be turned on by the taste of himself still on the other boy's lips. "This is gonna sound weird," he bluntly says, "but you're better than basically every AV star out there. I'd know, I watch a _lot_ of porn." 

 

“Yeah?” That probably shouldn’t turn Kaidou on as much as it does, but damned if he’s not happy to be kissed, letting his arms fall around Zaizen again as he arches up close. “We should...I mean, if you have a favorite or something sometime, I’ve never...my little brother is really nosy on the computer.” Not to mention that he’s still hard and steadily leaking against his own thigh.

 

"I have a really good collection." Zaizen buries his face into Kaidou's neck, one hand pawing down between them to let his fingers drag down the length of Kaidou's cock before wrapping around it in a slow squeeze. "Later, though," he mutters. "You're so hard, god." 

 

“Always gets like that,” Kaidou grunts, then gasps at the squeeze of Zaizen’s fingers. His hips jerk up involuntarily, rutting against Zaizen’s hand. One of his hands tangles in Zaizen’s hair, the other slides down to squeeze his ass--and yeah, that’s just about his favorite position, he thinks, especially when Zaizen’s lips are so close to his neck. “Hikaru…p-please, just—”

 

 _Fuck, you make the cutest noises._ If he wasn't still reeling from that fucking incredible blow job, Zaizen is pretty sure he'd be rutting against Kaidou just as bad as he was before. For now, though, he just squeezes and strokes and gets his mouth on Kaidou's neck, biting and sucking his way up to the lobe of his ear, which gets caught up in his teeth for a long, insistent pull. "Whenever you're ready," he breathes. "You just feel _really_ good like this." 

 

All it takes is the scrape of teeth, and Kaidou sees stars.

 

His hips buck into Zaizen’s hand, and he clings tightly with both hands when he comes, the unfamiliar touch getting him off a hell of a lot faster than he can ever do by himself. He turns his head, gasping, and manages to get his mouth on one of Zaizen’s piercings at the last second. That drags another burst out of him, and leaves him groaning and shaking, looking down to see the mess trickling through Zaizen’s fingers. “Hikaru…” He tries to catch his breath, and flops to the side, finally feeling that tension leave him in a last overwhelming wave.

 

Zaizen settles for flopping down listlessly for a moment, steadying his own breathing and really appreciating that he's going to have bruises in some _interesting_ places. Actually, all of his piercings kind of hurt, too, and that's…new. And nice. Yeah. 

 

"I think…it's time to take a break," he eventually says, voice still ragged, lifting up his sticky hand for an experimental lick. "Because I don't remember how to breathe."

 

Kaidou hisses out something that could be a laugh, and collapses down to the bed. “Ugh. Play me some music or something. Or the US Open is on, I bet you could stream it.”

 

"Listen, that requires moving right now, and I literally cannot." 

 

Kaidou raises an eyebrow. “Was it really that good, or are you really that weak?”

 

"Maybe both. Seriously, do you have any idea how good you are at giving blow jobs, it's fucking insane." 

 

“Really?” That’s a pleased heat in his belly, and Kaidou sort of snuggles closer. “Haven’t given that many. That was the…” He frowns, thinking. “Third? Fourth? The party all kind of blends together. You know, you were there.”

 

"Fucking parties," Zaizen mutters, and slings an arm and a leg over Kaidou in the process of reaching over him to grab a remote over on the opposite side of the bed. One click of it turns another monitor on, and he half-heartedly navigates to one of his favorite streaming sites. "I'm not that good at giving them. Gag reflex, mostly. Also, they _say_ tongue piercings are good for that stuff, but honestly, I think it just makes it harder. Once, I almost swallowed it. I don't even know how that happened, I blame Koharu." He usually blames Koharu.

 

“He has...a lot of ideas,” Kaidou mutters, and that thought makes his cheeks flush when actually having Zaizen’s cock in his mouth didn’t. “S’fine by me, though,” he adds, and turns around, nudging back against Zaizen. Usually he finds himself drawn to men much larger than himself, at least significantly taller, attracted by the idea of this exact position--but if Zaizen doesn’t mind he’s the larger one, he’ll try to forget it. “I don’t mind giving. Prefer it.”

 

Zaizen comfortably snuggles his way against Kaidou's back, secretly quite pleased. Being short means not a lot of offers to be the big spoon, but their bodies still fit together just fine, so what's the problem? "Cool. I mean, I don't mind, so if you ever want it, just say so. Ah, success," he adds mostly to himself, dropping the remote once he's got a stream of the next match going, and turns it full screen. "Hey, so are we…" Ugh, awkward, awkward, it's a lot easier to just touch dicks. "Are we dating or something, because that would be good." 

 

Kaidou swallows hard. He reaches back, grabs Zaizen’s arm, and pulls it over himself. “Yeah.” That one word has so much relief, so much _release_ in it it’s almost like a mental orgasm, and he huffs out a breath, startled by how much better he feels after just that much. 

 

The hell with it. Momoshiro might be a decent Captain.

 

"…Good." Zaizen stuffs his face into the back of Kaidou's neck, nuzzling there for a moment before hooking his chin over his shoulder and giving the other boy's waist a squeeze. That was easier than he thought it would be (or that Koharu and Yuuji ever made it out to be), thank god.

 


	33. Rikkai

Kanagawa city air after being on a mountain for two weeks is definitely an experience, but Yukimura finds he's much more tolerant of it when he actually feels _better_.

 

By the end of it, he was beating Sanada in a race down the mountain. Given, Sanada was carrying all of their _stuff_ , but that's beside the point, and Yukimura's still pretty sure that qualifies as a win, besides. 

 

"Why doesn't Nii-chan have to go back to school tomorrow?" Kaede complains the late morning after he arrives home. Yukimura's still yawning, hating that he's up this early (it's a few minutes shy of noon, which is way too early and still morning to him), but he's regrettably somewhat (very somewhat) stuck on Sanada's sleep schedule after two weeks of it. "I want _my_ vacation to be longer, too! This is an injustice!"

 

"Ah, yes. More vacation time in a hospital," he quips, reaching over to steal a pastry right off of her plate.

 

Kaede glares at him. "Nii-chan, your hair has gotten really long. You look like a _girl_."

 

"Shut up and give me a hair tie."

 

"It has _butterflies_ on it."

 

Yukimura makes a face, and Kaede steals the pastry back as Yukimura looks plaintively at his mother. "I feel fine, you know. I _could_ go back to school." He'd rather do that and see the whole team and feel like he's being _constructive_ for once, truth be told. 

 

"An injustice! It's an injustice!"

 

The doorbell rings, and someone (Kirihara) doesn’t bother to wait for anyone to answer. A second passes, and it’s an avalanche of teenage Japanese boys cascading into the house, all of whom are holding presents, some of whom stop to apologize with their foreheads to the ground first.

 

“Buchou! I baked you _so many cakes!”_

 

“Welcome home, Seiich—”

 

“Yo, you made it down from the cabin of love.”

 

Sanada waits in the doorway, arms folded. He moves enough to whack Kirihara upside the head when he forgets to take off his shoes, then closes the door behind him, bowing to Yukimura’s mother. “Yukimura-san, thank you for inviting us. Please excuse our arrival.”

 

“Nonsense, you boys are always--er, usually welcome.” She beams, and tugs off his hat before he can say anything, deftly hanging it on the coat rack and daring him silently to put it back on in her house. “Marui-kun, I don’t think I need to tell you the kitchen is yours?”

 

“On my way!” Marui flashes a peace sign at Yukimura, then bounds off for the kitchen, supplies under one arm and Jackal in tow.

 

"Buchou! Buchou, did you get my letter of apology? I sent it, but I wasn't sure that the address was any good--"

 

Yukimura just settles for blinking rapidly. "…I thought Sanada didn't let you have the addr--"

 

"I know, but I sent it to The Mountain, so I figured that would work!"

 

Kaede flops forward, thunking her head against the table, which is about what Yukimura wants to do as well. Kirihara just beams. "So did you get it?"

 

"Ah…"

 

"Listen, if you didn't get it, I can tell you everything that it said. I memorized it, Yanagi-sempai helped!"

 

Yukimura looks helplessly over to Yanagi-- _how did you let this happen, Renji_ \--and just happens to catch sight of Yagyuu, face down on the floor in a bow. Ah, they're still on that. "Yagyuu…you can get up…"

 

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Yukimura-kun, I'm really very sor--"

 

"I just said it was fine…"

 

"I'm so, _so_ sorry--"

 

_How long has this been going on?_

 

Yukimura Seiki sighs, shaking her head. “They’ve been over here every day, like that, on the front porch,” she says in his ear. “Just tell them you forgive them already, I _told_ them it was just tennis, but they won’t listen to me.”

 

“Yeah, I don’t do the head down thing,” Niou mutters, and slinks closer, stuffing an envelope into Yukimura’s hand and slinking back again. “Just...yeah, whenever. I’m really sorry.”

 

“Stop crowding him!” Sanada thunders, and Seiki sighs, hand on her bosom. “What a man,” she murmurs to herself.

 

"That's because it's _not_ just tennis, _Mom_ ," Yukimura hisses underneath his breath, frowning down at the envelope with open suspicion. 

 

"Buuuchouuuu, you have to let me apologize to you properly!"

 

"Akaya, I already forgave you," Yukimura exasperatedly replies, poking at the envelope cautiously. "Niou, this isn't a bomb, is it?" He'd _like_ for it to be a letter of apology or something comparable, because he _really_ needs someone to talk to about The Mountain, but…ugh.

 

"Gen-chan," Kaede pipes up, "why won't you take _me_ to a mountain?" 

 

"Because you're a girl," Yukimura mutters, cautiously opening up one end of the envelope and bracing himself for an explosion.

 

“Just...it’s an investment.” Niou looks dreadfully uncomfortable, as if _he’s_ afraid it’s really a bomb. _And it might be, if he takes it the wrong way._ “Dad asked for my opinion on something. If you don’t want it, just forget about it.”

 

Behind Niou, Sanada tenses, ready to slap him into another time zone if Yukimura doesn’t start smiling soon.

 

Yukimura, more confused than ever, opens up the envelope properly. "Yagyuu, get off the floor already."

 

"But--"

 

"If you don't get up, I'm gonna get Sanada to _pull_ you up. Besides, I'm not mad at you anymore."

 

Yagyuu is up instantly, and Yukimura unfolds what _appears_ to not be a bomb. Maybe? His eyes scan rapidly, and everyone is silent, and that's no good when a weird, strangled squeak leaves his throat. "But…" 

 

Kaede immediately leans over. "What is it? Is it really a bomb? Is it gonna go off?"  

 

"What do you _mean_ your dad asked for your opinion on this? _Niou_ \--" Yukimura sucks in a sharp, ragged breath, and tosses what is _apparently_ a sponsor's offer down onto the table when he's up and launches himself at the other boy for a tight, unrelenting hug. 

 

Yagyuu wearily snaps a picture for his sister's records.

 

Niou’s hug is just as fierce, without a trace of worry that he’ll somehow hurt Yukimura. It’s sort of hard to be concerned about that when he feels so solid, and is kind of--no, definitely—

 

“Yeah, okay, boss, you’re definitely choking me now.” He could sound a lot more miserable about that.

 

"Good, choke, you deserve it!" Yukimura huffs, squeezing the life out of Niou with no regrets. 

 

"Yanagi-sempai," Kirihara hisses underneath his breath, "what just happened?"

 

"Ahhh, this is just perfect timing, now I _really_ don't feel bad about not being able to come back," Yukimura giddily sighs, rocking back on his heels and still not quite letting Niou go. "My first real confession!"

 

"Yukimura-kun…aren't they called _offers_ \--"

 

"Shut up, Yagyuu, they're definitely called confessions. I'd know." 

 

“It’s definitely not your first confession,” Sanada grumbles.

 

Yanagi bows, and forces Kirihara down into a bow as well. “Congratulations on beginning your pro career, Seiichi.”

 

“What did I miss?” Marui yells from the kitchen. “Jackal, go find out what I missed!”

 

Niou sort of snuggles his head into Yukimura’s shoulder. Yeah, there are worse places to be. “Do you not hate me anymore?”

 

"I didn't hate you to begin with," Yukimura consolingly sighs. "Just the fact that you lost really horribly at tennis and you literally picked the worst day to do that on and decided to be a little shit about it--"

 

"Oi, what did we miss?" Jackal calls, poking his head out.

 

"You can both be updated when you're _done_ in there, I've got to hold a meeting, anyway," Yukimura huffs, giving Niou a last, long squeeze before letting him go. "I have got to tell you _so many_ things," he whispers. "You aren't going to even come _close_ to believing me." 

 

Niou’s eyes shift sideways to Yagyuu. “Same,” he admits, a dumb little smile on his face. “Just--mountain good?”

 

Yukimura sighs dreamily. "You have _no_ idea. Drag Yagyuu off to your island or whatever, _highly_ recommended."

 

"Wait, Yukimura-buchou's going pro?" It obviously _just_ clicked in Kirihara's mind. "Like, right now? But who's gonna be captain for the rest of the year? We've still got to train!"

 

"Tournament season is over, Kirihara-kun," Yagyuu points out, pushing his glasses up. "And I'm fairly certain that Yukimura-kun isn't going pro _right this second…_ " 

 

Sanada scowls, and steps close to Kirihara, but doesn’t give him a slap. Maybe there are still too many good feelings coursing through him, judging by the fond look he shoots Yukimura. “Who do you think would be captain? We’re all retiring!” He turns Kirihara’s head, and asks, a bit more quietly, “Are you ready to make us proud?”

 

Yanagi’s hand comes up to Kirihara’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’ll be a very good captain, Akaya.”

 

“Puri.”

 

Kirihara blinks, and his expression suddenly takes on an edge of terror. "But--there are still a lot of months left! You can't retire _yet_ , I'm not--"

 

"A.ka. _ya_." Yukimura reaches over, grabbing handfuls of his curls to thoroughly muss them. "You'll be a _really_ good captain."

 

"But--but, _Buchou_ \--"

 

"Nuh uh, none of that." Yukimura's expression softens. "There's no way around it, Akaya. I'm not coming back to classes with the rest of you, anyway." 

 

“Genichirou and I will be around to train you for the next few months,” Yanagi says reassuringly. “But you’ll be Captain effective very soon. We’ll be too busy with exams and studying to help you much with training your new team.”

 

“Not that that means you can slack off!”

 

Niou grins. “Just because you’re in charge doesn’t mean you can run from us.” The _puri_ , he thinks, is implied.

 

"Yukimura-buchou…" Kirihara's eyes quickly well with tears, and Yukimura valiantly attempts not to squeak when Kirihara suddenly tackles him and squeezes him hard enough that he can't breathe.

 

Yukimura wheezes instead, logically. " _Mercy_ , Akaya--"

 

Kirihara doesn't really seem to hear, but at least it's an excuse for him to release Yukimura and latch onto Sanada instead, who is considerably more difficult to lift off of his feet. " _Sanada-fukubuchou-_ -"

 

"I'll still come by to coach a bit!" Yukimura cheerfully tosses over. "But mostly, I'm going to be focusing on my rehab, and _apparently_ , with this influx of confessions before I'm even _advertising_ my prowess--"

 

"You seriously got like, one offer, Nii-chan." 

 

"S-Sanada-fukubuchouuuuuu--" 

 

"Ah, it seems he's going to keep doing that," Yagyuu sighs. 

 

Sanada sighs, and pets Kirihara’s head, dragging him into a bone-crushing hug. Akaya means well, he knows, and might even be a good captain someday, if he can temper his own development instead of having others help him through it. “You’ll be fine. You have a lot to live up to, though! Avenge our loss to Seigaku! Crush them for Rikkai!”

 

“That’s too much crushing on vacation,” Niou complains, flopping onto the couch. 

 

“Buchou!” Marui calls. “You have to taste some things! I need input!” He runs in, an hors d’ouvre in each hand, and looks around, frowning. “Why is everyone freaking out and hugging?”

 

Yukimura flaps a hand dismissively and immediately reaches for the food. "Just talking about third year retirement. Akaya didn't quite realize how soon he'd have to take over, you know?" 

 

"I can't live up to you guys, I caaaaan't--" 

 

A sigh follows that. "He's stuck in a loop. Akaya!" 

 

Kirihara whimpers and squeaks, bolting out of Sanada's hold. "Yes sir!"

 

"How badly are you going to destroy Seigaku next year?" Yukimura sweetly asks.

 

That seems to do it. Kirihara's eyes start to glaze red. "That fucking _viper_ \--I'll murder him--"

 

Yukimura glances away, uncaring. "There we go, that's doing it. Ooh, Marui, this one's really good."

 

Marui beams. “Twenty like it, coming right up!”

 

It isn’t long until plates are stuffed into every hand, crammed onto every table. It’s difficult to tell Yukimura’s mother that no, they _don’t_ need any champagne when a few select people on the team seem to think that no, really, they do, but Sanada manages it, even though Niou flicks canapés at the back of his head.

 

After resounding cheers of “Kampaaaaai!” the food goes quickly, and Sanada’s main concern is trying not to make eyes at Yukimura over the food.

 

Niou leans against Yukimura’s shoulder. “Spill now, or later?” he asks around a mouthful of amuse-bouche.

 

"Now, I think," Yukimura sighs happily, leaning back against Niou in turn. Ahhh, it feels good not being _mad_ at anyone, especially Niou. Truthfully, he hasn't been mad for awhile now (he kind of stopped being mad right after it all happened), but Sanada kept _reminding him_ , and that made it drag out. "First and foremost, _how_ are you so into taking Yagyuu's dick if it's even bigger than _Sanada's?_ " he presses underneath his breath. "Because that's _not_ fun." 

 

"Sanada-fukubuchoooou, why can't you stay and be _my_ vice captain for awhile?" 

 

“That’s not how school _works_ , Akaya! You’ll stand on your own two feet!”

 

“Well,” Niou says, unabashed (though quietly), “I stretch myself out with my fingers every day that he doesn’t do me. Also I like it when it hurts, so there’s that. But yeah, I told you to practice if you were gonna take a big ol’ dick.” He squeezes Yukimura’s hand in sympathy. “Still burn-y? I can give you some lotion.”

 

Yukimura huffs, shaking his head. "As _if_. We only did that _once_ , that's a lot of work and not a lot of reward." He leans in closer, his smirk nothing shy of diabolical. "Guess who's _actually_ a huge slut for it."

 

"But Sanada-fukubuchou, I don't even _know_ who could be my vice captain! Why can't it be you, you're the best!"

 

Niou immediately turns around and punches Yaguu in the arm. “You owe me 5,000 yen.”

 

" _Ow_ , Niou-kun. For what bet do I owe you that, I'm trying to at least keep records."

 

Yukimura elbows Niou in the gut in turn. "Don't take bets on it! You didn't even ask me for details, I want to brag about it!" 

 

Niou grins, turning his full attention back to Yukimura. “Sorry, boss. He just keeps losing bets. It’s a sickness.” Not to mention Yagyuu had been _ever_ so scandalized at the idea that his beloved Yukimura was actually a top, for some stupid reason. The big dork. “So, positions? Does he like it when you grind his face into the ground?” Yagyuu will owe him more yen, if so.

 

"Face right down into a pillow, because he's _waaaay_ noisier than I am." He has wanted to brag about this for what feels like an eternity. Yukimura leans in eagerly, smirk still in place. "Though the _first time_ , he just climbed on it, like he was gonna die if he didn't have more of it in him." 

 

Whoops, that’s an erection starting. Niou crosses his legs under the table, eyebrows climbing steadily higher. “He make good noises? Damn, do you think he practices at night or something? Was he good at taking it?”

 

"He's _got_ to practice, how else would he be as good as he was?" Yukimura huffs, leaning his chin into one hand with a grin. "He's _so_ easy, too. Some of the time, I barely even got it in before he came all over himself--"

 

"I have literally lost every bet now, thank you," Yagyuu mutters underneath his breath, no matter how he tries to ignore them. So much for Yukimura, his beautiful, delicate _princess_ in bed.

 

“I’m gonna punch you later,” Niou grouses, kicking Yagyuu under the table. Damn, he’s probably gonna have to wear the blue wig tonight. “So, boss, you gotta tell me about the _noises_. High-pitched? Or all growly like when he’s mad? I bet he’s a whiner.”

 

"Mmmn, nope, he's _really_ manly about it. He gets all growly at times, sure, but he gets all throaty and rumbly and it's _good_." Yukimura sighs wistfully, his gaze trailing over to Sanada and landing there. "When he's face down, you can see all his muscles bunch up and there are _so many_ …"

 

Sanada turns his head to the side and sneezes explosively into his shoulder. 

 

Niou snickers. “How about after? Did he get all shy and nervous about it, or was he slutty? Ooh, did you get your dick in his mouth? How’s his gag reflex?” He might be having what some people would call “too much” fun.

 

"Oh, god, Niou, that's the funniest thing," Yukimura hisses, grabbing him by the shoulder and shaking him. "He was so shy when he was doing _me!_ But when I was doing _him_ , he was just a total slut. It was the best, seriously, and I'll have you know, _my_ gag reflex is great." He pauses, and winces. "But, I do not recommend Sanada's." 

 

Niou leans in, his eyes wide and intent. “Boss, please tell me he threw up on you. Please. Please. Please. I really need to hear this.”

 

Yukimura scowls, leaning away slightly. "Look, it's not like he did it a _lot_."

 

Niou erupts into laughter so intense it’s silent, shaking his shoulders and bringing tears to his eyes. This, truly, is the pinnacle of human achievement, and he’ll probably never be able to stop picturing Sanada vomiting on dick.

 

"You're such an ass! Stop laughing, I'm going to kick you in the balls if you don't stop-- _and_ I'll kick you off the team--"

 

They're loud enough that everyone else can hear them now, and that prompts Kirihara's: "You can't do that! _I'm_ the captain now!"

 

Yukimura stops shaking Niou for a moment to stare back in complete and utter incredulous disbelief, which makes Kirihara slowly slink behind Yanagi in spite of himself. 

 

“Now, now, Seiichi,” Yanagi says mildly, patting Kirihara’s hand, “you _did_ say he needed to take more responsibility.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Niou gasps, pawing ineffectively at Yukimura’s arm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t—”

 

“What did you do?” Sanada demands. “Answer!”

 

“Oh god,” Niou begs, grabbing Yukimura’s sleeve, “please let me answer.”

 

"No! You're not allowed to answer, now stop laughing and tell me about _your_ misadventures, Ma.sa. _ko_ \--"

 

"Oh, dear, he's got the girl version out now," Yagyuu sighs, pushing up his glasses and pointedly looking away. 

 

"I want details," Yukimura hisses underneath his breath, shaking Niou until his head snaps back and forth. "Because I wanna know why you were so nutty at the finals that you lost like a little girl!" 

 

Niou finally, with effort, stops laughing, gulping in air and trying to get back some semblance of control. “Fine, fine,” he says, wiping tears out of his eyes. “Shit, it almost seems funny now. Yagyuu freaked out because he thought I was sticking my dick in Fuji Shuusuke.” Abruptly, it occurs to him that it’s a pretty stupid reason to throw away a match in a national finals. Well, he’s always known that, but saying it aloud… “He broke up with me. Asshole.” He follows this with a swift poke to Yagyuu’s thigh.

 

"Don't bring me into this conversation," Yagyuu frantically protests, scooting away. 

 

"Hmmm. But _did_ you stick your dick in him," Yukimura archly presses. "Because he's pretty, albeit batshit insane. Do you at least know why he forfeited like that? I mean, thank god, but…"

 

Niou sticks up his left hand--his _tennis_ hand, which means, obviously, a lot more. “I didn’t stick my dick in him, and he didn’t stick it in me. I didn’t even touch the looney bat. I might have if Yagyuu was on board,” he allows, “but we’d been dating for like, six days. I figured that was pushing it. And….I dunno, maybe he was just real scared of Bun-chan.”

 

Yukimura looks skeptically over to Marui. "…Dunno about that. But, seriously? You two broke up over that? _That's_ why you lost your match?" He smacks Niou's chest half-heartedly. "I looked at the ranking charts, you two are only like two points underneath that Seigaku pair because you still won everything else all season! Gross! You're trash!" 

 

Niou shrugs. “Yeah, I’m gonna be honest, that doesn’t matter too much to me. I was way more pissed off that he thought I was fucking around.” He grimaces. “I’m really sorry we let you down, though. That’s...yeah, that’s pretty unforgivable.”

 

"You're _so_ lame," Yukimura sighs out, folding his arms and trying to look mad for a second longer, but fails. "Are you two at least going to keep playing in high school? I'm going to be mad if I don't have games to come and watch other than Akaya's." 

 

Niou blinks, startled. “Uh….I dunno.” He darts a look over at Yagyuu, then leans in, explaining quietly, “We haven’t actually talked about it. But Sanada’s gonna be playing, right? You can always go watch his games, when you’re a big famous tennis pro.”

 

"How have you not talked about it? Aren't you two going to the same high school?" Yukimura hisses, leaning in closer as well. "You're dating again _now_ , aren't you? Look, you have to keep playing tennis together, you're doubles partners so it's even _more_ of a thing." 

 

Niou wants to evade, and nearly does--and then, on a whim, turns to Yagyuu instead. “Oi, Yaaagyuu. What high school are you going to?” His heart thuds. God, he’s so gay for this big nerd.

 

Yagyuu blinks at the sudden question, and looks warily back at Niou, taking a hurried sip of water. "Well, I'm not sure _yet_ , but I'm taking Rikkai's exams, of course, but also there are a couple of schools in Tokyo that focus more on sciences that I'll be looking into…" 

 

Yukimura claps Niou on the shoulder. "Aren't you glad that you're good at every subject except English?" 

 

“I have an A in English,” Niou reminds him, kicking back in his chair. “So...you wanna keep playing doubles in high school?” Dammit, why does he have to be the one to ask _everything?_ Gross. Plus, everyone is _looking_ at them.

 

"An A doesn't mean you're _good_ at it--"

 

Yagyuu gives Yukimura a frantic look, as if to say _Yukimura-kun, please, he doesn't know (and it's cute)._ "I…well, I--"

 

Kirihara's eyes roll almost audibly. "Duhhh, of course Yagyuu-sempai does, you two are the best doubles pair in the country!"

 

"…The schools I narrowed my search down to _do_ have a good tennis program," Yagyuu mumbles, shoving at his glasses. 

 

Niou starts feeling his face heat up. Damn Yagyuu, for making him look like the stupid clingy one. That’s the plan, he _knows_ it is. “Yeah, well, tell me if you do or not.” He wishes for a moment he had a fork instead of chopsticks; it would be really satisfying to stab his food right now. 

 

Yanagi turns to Sanada. “Genichirou, will you continue attending calligraphy classes in high school?” 

 

Sanada stares at him. “Of course. Why would you ask such a—”

 

“Because apparently Masaharu thinks it’s time to ask questions with obvious answers.”

 

Stupid Yanagi.

 

"Seeeee?" Yukimura wheedles, grinning as he leans in close to Niou again, eyes flashing victoriously. Perfect Yanagi, always there when he needs to prove a point. "You _have_ to play doubles together still. You're gonna be even more awesome. I mean, your captain won't be, whoever he is, but that's beside the point. You'll be his ace, that guaranteed victory in Doubles One, just like I taught you!"

 

Yagyuu hides his own stupidly flushed face by ducking over his food, and Kirihara starts having a mild panic attack about who _his_ doubles pairs are going to be next year.

 

“Whatever,” Niou mutters, slouching down low in his chair. “Yeah. I guess. If Yagyuu wants to.” 

 

Marui slaps Jackal’s shoulder. “Hey! Why haven’t you asked me if I want to be your doubles partner next year yet?”

 

Jackal looks back at him incredulously. "Because I thought it was obvious! I'm not dumb like they are, Bunta!"

 

"Yanagi-sempaiiii, why won't you stay behind and be _my_ doubles partner?"

 

"Heh. I," Yukimura regally announces, folding his arms, "obviously don't _need_ a doubles partner. And if I did, I'm sure Sanada would suffice."

 

Sanada just snorts, and doesn’t elaborate. The poor unlucky sap that one day has to be Yukimura’s doubles partner has every bit of his sympathy.

 

“Akaya, do I need to remind you again how middle and high school work?”

 

"Look, I'm just saying, you could fail a _few_ classes and stay back."

 

Yagyuu slowly, quietly leans over, and hesitantly taps the back of Niou's shoulder. "I didn't know if you wanted to play in high school still," he awkwardly admits. "But if you still want to…I do, too."

 

Niou immediately thunks his head onto Yagyuu’s shoulder. “Dumbass. You’re my partner.” And everything else is sappy and stupid and implied anyway, so he doesn’t bother to say it.

 


	34. Seigaku, Kaidou & Zaizen

Going to Hyoutei to play tennis, Atobe is sure, is a better idea than going to Seigaku. None of _his_ team, as opposed to Tezuka’s, are going to be practicing during summer vacation. God, no. Not at school, anyway. 

 

But Tezuka overrides him with a simple, “I’m just not going to do that, Keigo,” so they go to Seigaku, because Atobe likes playing tennis against Tezuka more than he likes winning this argument...for now.

 

There are, to Atobe’s annoyance, a few scattered first and second years running around, serving the ball and chasing after it like pathetic little chipmunks. That’s unkind of him, but in all honesty, he doesn’t care, so it’s fine. The sun is low in the sky, courtesy of the long morning they’d spent in Tezuka’s bedroom practicing German and talking about the most overrated foreign foods in Tokyo shops, with only the occasional break for a languid makeout. Vacations are _excellent_.

 

“Get ready,” he calls, launching himself into a spin. “You’ll be awed by my prowess if you let your guard down, ha!”

 

Tezuka has to keep convincing himself that even if he's seen around Atobe, it's not going to be the end of the world.

 

It never was before. It shouldn't be now. They're rivals to anyone that glances at them, and this proves it, especially at _his_ school. Like most of his worries and neurosis, they need to be tackled head-on, and this is no exception. 

 

 _You're_ _the one that's going to draw attention, being so noisy_ , Tezuka wryly thinks, and proves his point by deftly returning Atobe's next smash with a slice that barely makes a sound on his racquet, sending it sailing _gently_ over the net. 

 

"Nice, Tezuka-buchou." 

 

Tezuka blinks, straightening on the baseline when Ryouma lets himself into the tennis cage, plopping his bag down and then sitting himself down next to it. "Echizen."

 

"Mmnn. Back from Osaka." Ryouma flops forward when he spreads his legs out to either side, landing nearly flat on his belly between them in a long, forward stretch. "Don't stop, I like watching you both play."

 

Atobe lets out a laugh, shaking his hair back from his face as he grabs the ball, trotting back to the baseline. “I thought you were gone for the rest of the summer, at this rate. You haven’t gone all _Osakan_ on us, have you?” He draws back an arm, and serves hard, hoping to sneak in before Tezuka starts that damned zone. At least on a serve, Atobe can make him run.

 

Ryouma looks up from underneath the brim of his had, suspicious. "Not yet."

 

Tezuka exhales a breath through his nose as he veers to the right corner to return Atobe's serve with a sharp backhand. "Yet?" 

 

"Mm. Yet." Ryouma's arms stretch out to grab at his own toes, exhaling a satisfied noise when that pops a few vertebrae of his spine into a better position. "It's hotter down there, somehow."

 

“Going south will do that. Remember your captain’s tan when he returned from Kyuushuu?” Ah, but Ryouma hadn’t been able to see the _whole_ tan, glistening golden-brown skin in that utterly delightfully tacky tan left by his tennis clothes. That, Atobe is certain, is a sight reserved for his lucky eyes alone. 

 

He only just manages to get his hands up fast enough, and his muscles cord when he returns the shot with a smash, leaping into the air and slamming it down. “Did they at least have air conditioning?”

 

Ryouma's eyes follow the ball, unable to help himself, and watches the way that Tezuka goes a solid meter behind the baseline to catch that smash on its stupidly high bounce, sending it back over with another sharp, precise backhand to the exact same spot. "Some places did. Kintarou's apartment didn't. I mean, one room did, but…" Ryouma trails off, huffy. " _Apparently_ , Shitenhouji's captain for next year has a house with central air. Atobe-sempai, do you think I could find an apartment down there with central air, or is that just not a _thing_ in Osaka?"

 

"Echizen, it's just a matter of building tolerance." Talking about air conditioner just makes him sweat more, Tezuka is fairly certain. 

 

"Don't wanna. I can't stay down there if it's that hot." 

 

“You can find anything anywhere, if you have the resources.” It’s an easy answer, and true, but the implication makes him put a little more power than he was intending behind his next shot, a slice to the center line. “You _can’t_ be serious. In the land of buffoons?”

 

"Kintarou's down there, so…" 

 

Tezuka stumbles, and the next ball connects with the edge of his racquet.

 

Ryouma watches it sail over the net as a high lob, and then flop down just outside of the line. "Out."

 

Straightening his glasses, Tezuka just _looks_ at him. "Are you transferring from Seigaku?" 

 

Suddenly awkward, Ryouma shrugs, hunching up into a ball. "Maybe. Dunno. I mean, Seigaku's gonna suck next year…"

 

Tezuka just looks at Atobe instead, a weighted stare that all but says _he is your son right now._

 

Atobe shoots back a look that says in no uncertain terms that this is more than news to him. “Ryouma. Child. You _can’t_ be _serious_. This was the number one team in the nation this year, and because of you.” He stares, and tries not to pout. “You can’t _both_ leave me in Tokyo by myself!”

 

"You can move to Osaka" and "You can move to Germany" are said in exact unison, and Tezuka turns away off of the court to grab a bottle of water while Ryouma huffs again. 

 

"It's not gonna be number one next year, though." He hauls himself to his feet, brushing off dirt from his knees. "It's just me and Kaidou-sempai and Momo-sempai that are left. Everyone else sucks. Tell him, Tezuka-buchou."

 

Tezuka just takes his glasses off, and dumps cold water over his head. 

 

"See, he knows. Kintarou's in Osaka, and…" Ryouma trails off, biting his lip, wondering if he should say something, but then deciding on it, anyway. "Kaidou-sempai wants to transfer down there. _His_ boyfriend goes to Shitenhouji, too."

 

“No wonder the birth rate in Japan is so abysmal,” Atobe mutters under his breath. “Listen, Ryouma, you never know what kind of first-years there are going to be next year--and there’s no guarantee Shitenhouji will be as good as they were this year, their team is heavy on third-years as well. Christ, if you want a guaranteed win, go to Fudomine, they’re almost entirely second years.” He frowns. “On second thought, don’t go to Fudomine. Come to Hyoutei! Bring Kintarou if you want, scholarships for all.”

 

"Keigo, _your_ poaching of him isn't any better, you know," Tezuka dryly points out, shaking out his hair. 

 

Ryouma sighs, long and hard. "I don't _wanna_ go to Hyoutei. It's going to be lame, you only have weird tuning fork guy and Kabaji and…who was going to be captain, again?"

 

"Hiyoshi."

 

"Thanks, Tezuka-buchou. That guy that I can never remember. Yeah, I'm not gonna do that. Shitenhouji has Kintarou, and Zaizen--he likes cats--and maybe Chitose if he gets held back, and probably Kaidou-sempai if he can get a scholarship." 

 

"I'm fairly certain," Tezuka carefully begins, "that Kaidou wants to be captain of Seigaku."

 

"Yeah, well, he's dating Shitenhouji's next captain who says he can be captain instead, so there's that." 

 

God dammit. Should he feel bad about this? Maybe, but…everyone underneath his direction that wanted to win _did_ get their win, so there's not much in the way of responsibility left for him. "Echizen--"

 

"Tezuka-buchou, if you wrote him a recommendation letter, he'd get his scholarship. You're already signed with a sponsor and everything."

 

Tezuka just looks helplessly over at Atobe, fairly certain that there was no hope of arguing with Ryouma before this had even started. 

 

How Ryouma found out about Ootori’s tuning fork habit, Atobe will never know, though he _isn’t_ wrong about its strangeness. Atobe looks from Ryouma to Tezuka, then back again. Just to be sure, he lets his eyes unfocus, using Insight, and sighs. “Kunimitsu, just let him go with your blessing. He’s already made up his mind. Haven’t you, boy?”

 

Ryouma scuffs at the court with one toe. "Kinda." 

 

Tezuka sighs, long and hard. "If you go and you're miserable because it's hot down there and that school is a hellhole, you're _not_ blaming me."

 

Ryouma perks up. "Got it."

 

"You're going to blame Keigo instead."

 

"Got it." 

 

“Oi! I’m the one telling you to come to Hyoutei! You don’t have to move and we have air conditioners!”

 

"But I won't be on the same team as you _or_ as Kintarou, so there's no point." Ryouma stares over at him plaintively. "You could come visit me." 

 

Atobe rolls his eyes. “If I’m going to be making trips to Germany, I might as well make the occasional jaunt to Osaka. But you need to come visit me, too. No, you don’t have to go home and see your father while you’re here.”

 

Ryouma immediately looks relieved. "Oh, good. I'm bringing my cat, though. I bet he'd like your bath tub…like, a lot. Tezuka-buchou, you have to come visit, too." 

 

"I'm going to be very busy, Echizen."

 

"Che. Atobe-sempai, you have to make him come visit, too."

 

“ _You_ try making him do something he doesn’t want to do.” Atobe thinks, then adds, “Though I will say I’ve been acquiring many pillows. I’d very much like it if you both came to see the raw materials I’ve procured for our next fort.” There are _so_ many.

 

Ryouma's face immediately lights up. "I'm into that. Tezuka-buchou, that means you _have_ to come visit."

 

Tezuka just sighs, pushing up his glasses. "We'll see." 

 

"It'll be good. I bet Atobe-sempai has enough pillows to make a fort for all of us." 

 

"I'm sure."

 

" _And_ for Karupin." 

 

 _What have you done_ is the look that Tezuka sends in Atobe's direction, along with an aggravated swat of a tennis ball.

 

Atobe snatches the ball from the air with ease, pocketing it. “Now now, Kunimitsu,” he chides in amusement, “don’t be cross because he needed a new big brother to play with while you were away or uninterested.” He snatches Ryouma’s hat, just so he can ruffle the hair underneath. “Have you even asked your father about transferring, or is that not an issue?”

 

Ryouma scowls, making a grab for his hat again, only to miss by several inches. He settles for glaring up from his bangs instead. "I'm not gonna ask him. I'm gonna ask my mom, she'll let me do it, she's from Osaka. Oyaji's weird and gross and doesn't like my boyfriend."

 

Oh, god. That sounds less good, truth be told. "Echizen," Tezuka carefully puts in, walking over to the net, "are you _certain_ that's--"

 

" _He's_ the only reason I came to Seigaku, anyway. He has some weird thing about it." Ryouma frowns. "Maybe _then_ he'll learn not to be so dumb about this kind of thing." 

 

Tezuka dimly realizes that he's never had a real argument with his parents a day in his life, and he's very, very poorly equipped to deal with this. Well, shit. 

 

There’s always some hint of alarm in Atobe when Ryouma says things about his father like that. The idea of telling his own father that he’s hated, that he’s not going to have a _choice_ —

 

Atobe pales slightly at the idea of it.

 

One look at Tezuka shows him that he isn’t the only one. “Bloody Americans,” he mutters in English.

 

Ryouma's glare immediately sharpens. "Oi. It's not an American thing, it's a my-dad's-a-jerk thing," he snipes back in English as well. 

 

"Your father is just trying to do what's best--"

 

Ryouma just looks tired at that, and says in Japanese, "Tezuka-buchou, no offense, but you just really like his tennis."

 

Tezuka hesitates, tilting his head to the side, and shrugs a little, defeated. "I _do_ like his tennis."

 

"Excluded from this conversation, then," Ryouma says in English again, huffily. "My dad's just a jerk and is mad that I have a boyfriend, that's it."

 

Atobe tries to imagine simply excluding his father from decisions, and winds up sighing wistfully. “Anyway,” he says, more to snap himself out of it than anything, “if you can pull it off and you’ll be happier, I wish you...well, I wish you would transfer to Hyoutei, and it will always be open to you when you’re sick of the heat. But until then, I wish you nothing but joy of... _Osaka_.” His tone could be more neutral on that word, he supposes. “You _will_ come over and build a pillow fort before you leave.”

 

Ryouma sniffs. "I'm gonna stay the rest of this year at Seigaku, so I'm gonna build a lot of pillow forts. I'm better at them than you are, your structure is faulty." 

 

 _When did pillow forts become such a thing,_ Tezuka dimly wonders.

 

Atobe’s eyes light up. “We should all go to New York!” he decides on a whim. “Kunimitsu’s never been, and I haven’t since I was a child. Ah, Ryouma, I bet you know the best places, don’t you?”

 

Ryouma's head tilts. "Well, I know the best places to play tennis, and the best Japanese restaurants. We could stay with my mom."

 

"Weren't you just complaining about Americans?" Tezuka dryly notes, poking Atobe with the end of his racquet.

 

“Yes, but I grew up British. It comes with the territory,” Atobe says airily. “They wouldn’t know what to do with themselves if we didn’t complain about them, I’m sure. Besides, don’t you want to see the Statue of Liberty? Or…” He wracks his brain for a minute, thinking. “I don’t know, baseball? Immense hamburgers?”

 

"They're not that big, Atobe-sempai, and the Statue of Liberty is crowded and boring. Also, everyone that plays baseball is fat." 

 

"That's…odd," Tezuka offers. 

 

"Mm. But New York is still fun. My mom would like you. Especially you, Atobe-sempai, she always wants new clients." 

 

Atobe is vaguely mystified by Ryouma’s family situation on a good day, and this does not appear to be one of those. “What exactly does she, er, do?” he asks, wondering if it would be in bad taste to inquire as to whether the lady is some sort of prostitute. There has to be _some_ reason she isn’t living at home--though, having met The Samurai Nanjirou, Atobe thinks he has some ideas about why.

 

Ryouma blinks. "Oh, yeah. You've never met her. She's a lawyer."

 

Tezuka's eyebrows raise. So she really _does_ exist.

 

"She went to school in America for it. I think she likes it better over there…she only visits sometimes, and most of the time, she and my dad kind of do their own thing." Ryouma shrugs. "Anyway, her apartment's near Central Park, it might be fun to go."

 

Atobe turns to Tezuka, giving him a look that can only be described as _Can we please please can we please please can we can we please?_

 

"…I'll have to work out the scheduling with--"

 

"Whenever's fine for her, I know. She gets bored and likes when I come home; she'd like it more if I brought friends." 

 

Tezuka sighs, resigned and also surrounded on all sides. "All right, then."

 

“The sooner the better,” Atobe decides. “Before summer break is over, and before you need to start training in earnest for your new sponsors.” _And before Father decides that my middle school freedom is at an end._

 

What obnoxious thoughts. He didn’t used to have such obnoxious thoughts. “Kunimitsu, let me ask Kaachan. She’ll say yes if I ask.”

 

Ryouma's brow furrows. "Kaachan?"

 

"Don't ask," Tezuka wearily responds to Ryouma, and then just shrugs at Atobe. "Go for it."

 

"… _Kaachan,_ though." Ryouma's lips twitch. "Atobe-sempai, are you five?" 

 

“Kaachan is a tremendous woman, and I won’t have you infantilizing my adoration for her,” Atobe says loftily. “Needless to say, gentlemen, we’ll be taking the jet. Will tomorrow work for both of you? If she’ll let me drag you off to the Alps, I’m sure New York will be a breeze. Ryouma, I don’t suppose you have to tell your _boyfriend_ that you’ll be gone, will you?”

 

"What's the point?" Ryouma gloomily says when reminded about Kintarou not being around. "He doesn't have a cell phone." 

 

Tezuka is glad for that, in a way. "Tomorrow it is, then." He'll have to remember to write that recommendation letter before they take off. 

 

Seigaku will be fine, either way.

 

~

 

Kaidou stares at the letter in his hands.

 

To be honest, he’d always thought it was a slim chance that he’d _ever_ be looking at an envelope containing a letter that started, 

 

_“Kaidou-san,_

 

_We are pleased to inform you that…”_

 

To have it start that way and end in a way he never could have dreamed...and to have a slip of paper enclosed that said he was officially welcomed in a capacity of _tennis club captain_ \--that the scholarship (him, a scholarship) covers his travel and housing expenses…

 

It’s a good 45 minutes before he truly understands.

 

When he does, he’s not sure whether to be angry, humiliated, or glad. He grabs his phone, and sends off furious texts.

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: ???**

**Was this you? I know this was you!!**

 

Kaidou has a specific ringtone and text tone on his phone, which is about the only thing that ever makes Zaizen pull out an earbud and stop staring intently at his computer screen. 

 

Instead of dick pics, though, he gets this. Huh. Weird. And not that satisfying. 

 

**To: Kaoru**

**Subject: Re: ???**

**i literally have no idea what you're talking about**

 

Instead of writing back, Kaidou snaps a photo of the letter, then scowls when the text is unreadable. 

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: Re: ???**

**Shitenhouji. Scholarship. I didn’t apply. I got it. You???**

 

Definitely not what Zaizen expected, but okay. A little thrill goes down his spine at that, which is dumb, because apparently, Kaidou is upset about this…for some reason. 

 

**To: Kaoru**

**Subject: Re: ???**

**wasn't me, but congrats?? are you coming because i could not be captain sooner**

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: Re: ???**

**Don’t know. Have to talk to Tezuka.**

 

Then, a second later as an afterthought, he shoots off another. 

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: Maybe**

**Miss you.**

 

**To: Kaoru**

**Subject: Re: Maybe**

**i was about to say, where is my due amount of recognition. miss you, too.**

 

Zaizen pauses, thinking, and decides to not ask for dick pics _this time_.

 

**To: Kaoru**

**Subject: Re: Maybe**

**also i bet it was that little shit first year of yours, ¥1000 says he's transferring too**

 

Damn, that makes sense. Kaidou lets out a hiss, then makes a decision. If it _is_ Ryouma, then Tezuka may already have heard, or may be about to. That’s bad. If he’s going to hear, it should be from the source.

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: …**

**Going to talk to Tezuka now. Later if you’re not busy I will be home.**

 

He can go on the roof, he thinks, tying a clean and pressed bandana around his head, and shoves his phone into his pocket as he jogs out the door with a grunt to his father. That’s private enough. If Hazue is a little asshole and keeps his window open, he’ll just go to the dog park. There are plenty of quiet hills there where no one will be able to hear him talking.

 

Plus, he’ll be able to look at dogs.

 

All of this travel lately makes Tezuka's head hurt on a permanent basis, but _thankfully_ , he's now home for… 

 

At least a week.

 

 _You're going pro, that's the important thing._ He'll be able to relax once he's overseas and overseas _permanently_ , more or less. He'll have his first matches soon enough, and that idea is enough to motivate his headache to leave sooner, rather than later. 

 

Until he hears "Kunimitsu, you have a visitor!" and he tries not to groan. 

 

It's not Atobe; his mother has a different tone of voice when it's Atobe. That makes him wary, and Tezuka slowly slinks out of his bedroom, poking his head around the door and down the hall. 

 

"Kunimitsu, stop being such a recluse and come and greet your friend."

 

Bandana. Oh. Well, it could be worse. Tezuka exhales a breath that's relieved more than anything. "Kaidou, how are--"

 

"Did you run all this way? Goodness, if only Kunimitsu was that active!"

 

Tezuka wishes, as per usual, that he was dead.

 

Kaidou gives Tezuka’s mother a low bow, and another (much lower, this one an apology) to Tezuka. “Please forgive my intrusion, I’m so sorry to bother you on vacation. Sorry again. Do you mind if I speak to you for a moment?”

 

"Can I get you boys some tea? Anything? No, I'm putting it through the slat, Kunimitsu--"

 

"We can talk in my room," Tezuka wearily says, stepping back towards it. 

 

Kaidou follows, bowing again to Tezuka’s mother, bowing at the entrance to Tezuka’s door before entering. It’s _awkward_ , but at least it’s nice and clean (except some papers that definitely need to be sorted, and--yes, he could easily fit all of those stray tennis balls in one of those containers, and the books need to be categorized badly—

 

“Uh, forgive me for intruding, Captain,” he says again, standing awkwardly in the doorway. “I wanted to talk to you about next year.”

 

"Please, come in and sit." He's gotten too used to Atobe, and to Europe, and to anything close to it. People just do things there, and don't wait for permission, and that's almost better. Tezuka drops himself down onto the edge of his bed, his hands on his knees. "What about next year, exactly?" 

 

Saying this is so difficult it’s painful. Kaidou feels his chest tensing, his heart thudding, and all he can think is _he trusted me, he entrusted me with his sacred duty and I want to throw it in the trash, I’m trash, that’s where I belong._ “I….” 

 

His knees fold, and he goes down to a bow with his head pressed to the floor. “I’m sorry, Captain! Please reconsider making Momoshiro Captain next year! I don’t deserve it!”

 

Tezuka stares, and ah, yes, that headache is back again. "I'm not sure why you think you don't deserve it," he slowly attempts, "but if this is about your transfer to Shitenhouji, this is probably the point when I should tell you that I wrote your recommendation letter." 

 

Kaidou’s eyes bulge out, and his hands tremble on the ground. “Echizen,” he growls, slowly raising up onto his knees, still not looking at Tezuka. “Captain, I _swear_ , I wasn’t going to go. I didn’t even apply! Yes, I considered it, but that was just weakness, I know you entrusted me with Seigaku, and that’s why I’m not worthy of it!”

 

"Echizen told me about it, but I turned in the form for you," Tezuka says, just barely resisting the urge to stretch a leg out and use Kaidou's back as a footrest. It's just so _level_ … "It isn't weakness to do something that would make you happier, Kaidou." _Yes_ , that was so captain-y, he can almost taste it.

 

Kaidou’s eyes burn suddenly, and he blinks rapidly, fighting the urge to clutch at his chest. It’s _startling_ , to hear the words he’s wanted--but no, that’s weakness. Or is it?

 

“Buchou,” he chokes out, hands fisting on his thighs, perfectly trimmed nails biting crescents into his palms nonetheless. “I never...I didn’t want to let you down. Your opinion means so much to me.”

 

"You _really_ aren't letting me down, Kaidou." Tezuka exhales a sigh, leaning back onto one hand. "Do you think it's weakness for me to be leaving for the professional circuit?" he bluntly asks. "It's what I want to do, and what makes me happy. I see no difference between that and you wanting to go to Shitenhouji. Besides, I'm certain that Momoshiro will be able to do an excellent job with Seigaku, in his own way." It will crash and burn, but it will crash and burn either way, and perhaps it's better if it doesn't do that when Kaidou is in charge of it. He'll commit seppuku, most likely. 

 

Kaidou opens his mouth to tell Tezuka he’s been a _stellar_ captain, an _inspirational_ captain…

 

But in all honesty, he _has_ been gone a fair amount of time. And Momoshiro, that idiot, will probably be happy….and Zaizen, who he’s replacing, will be happy…

 

Kaidou swallows, and bows again. “Thank you, Buchou. Your permission means more to me than I could ever say.”

 

"You say that now," Tezuka dryly quips. "Good luck with _both_ Echizen and Touyama next year. If you make it out of there alive, consider it a success." 

 

“There _are_ a lot of explosions whenever they’re together,” Kaidou allows. “But...Echizen seems happier too, I think.” He looks up, stunned at his own rudeness. “Not that I could ever be the captain to him that you were! Are! Ah, sorry, sorry…”

 

"I wasn't here when he needed me the most," Tezuka wearily points out. "And I'll be leaving again soon enough. Make sure you can keep an eye on him properly, Kaidou, because I still won't be able to." 

 

That...that sounds like a _new_ sacred duty. “Yes, sir!” Kaidou nearly shouts, dipping a low bow again. “I swear, I won’t let you down.”

 

Two cups and a teapot slowly inch through the slat on the door, and Kaidou turns to stare at them, flabbergasted.

 

"It's better this way," Tezuka says, pushing up his glasses. "For everyone." 

 

Ten minutes later, full of suspiciously-procured tea, Kaidou stops at the dog park during his jog home, feeling considerably lighter and more energetic.

 

**To:** **財前光**

**Subject: Free?**

**Call if you are. I have an hour.**

 

Texting is great for when he can’t summon the energy to talk to someone, but this is something he wants to say in person...or at least over the phone.

 

Time to switch out earphones for a headset, which is done with extraordinary speed for someone that was minutes ago too lazy to reach over and turn on another monitor. It's because there might be good news, admittedly, but…

 

Also, because it's Kaoru. _That's a dumb, gay thought._ "Yo," Zaizen sighs out, flopping back into his chair and pausing his game for the moment. "Take care of that captain business?" 

 

Kaidou almost doesn’t answer for a minute, because some young lady is jogging with a Lhasa Apso. Aww. “Yeah,” he mutters, pulling the phone up to his ear. “It’s, uh...all taken care of. I got it. The whole thing.” He clears his throat, and sees a Shiba in the distance perk up its ears. Aww. “I’m coming.”

 

Zaizen blinks, honestly surprised. "Seriously?" And here he thought Kaidou was going to back out--something about duty and honor and whatever--but this is pretty fucking sweet. "Thank _god_ ," he exhales, shutting his eyes briefly. "I did _not_ want to be captain. And, you know. No more of this long-distance crap." Especially because Kaidou aggressively refuses to Skype.

 

“Yeah. No more of Hazue coming into my room when...when we’re on the phone.” Kaidou’s face flushes dark. That had been...less than good, even though they hadn’t been _doing_ anything. Kaidou knows his voice gets soft when he talks to Zaizen, and the less Hazue knows about that, the better. “Hikaru. They’re giving me a single room.” Tezuka must have written one _hell_ of a letter.

 

"Heh, seriously?" Zaizen's mind _might_ already be going to webcams. You know, when he isn't crashing over there or whatever. "That's pretty cool. Even Chitose doesn't have a medical single. I wonder what the dorm rules are about people staying over and stuff like that…"

 

Kaidou kicks his legs out in front of him, waiting until the nice man with his large dog walks by. “You’re another student, aren’t you? I’m sure you can just...come over for homework. And stay.” 

 

He lowers his voice, even though no one is within a hundred paces. “Couldn’t stop thinking about you last night. Tch, that sounds dumb.”

 

"You're cute," Zaizen mumbles, banging his head lightly back against his chair. Shit, the only thing about this is waiting until the transfer _happens_. He's going to die. That's _so_ homo. "I wish your dad would have another business trip down here or something." 

 

“Yeah, probably not. That was the first one he’s ever had.” Kaidou bites his bottom lip for a moment, watching a Shi Tzu chase a frisbee (poorly). “Echizen’s coming too. We’re definitely going to take Nationals between him and Tooyama. And us.”

 

"And maybe Chitose. If he gets held back." That's kind of exciting, in a stupid sports way, and Zaizen huddles up into a ball because of it. "Maybe I can like…come to Tokyo for a weekend or something. My parents would let me, they let me do anything if they think it's because I have friends."

 

Kaidou’s breath skips, and he sits up. “Yeah? I mean, just if it’s no trouble. You didn’t get to see a lot of it last time, I could…” He can bribe his brother to leave them alone, that’s what he can do.

 

"I'll let you know." Zaizen kicks at his desk slowly. "I bet we could find a love hotel in Ikebukuro, if you really wanted to." He's _heard_ things on 2ch about it.

 

Kaidou lets out a sound somewhere between a whimper and a groan, and strangles it somewhat ineffectively. “Uh. Yeah. I don’t know about down there, but they don’t ask how old you are in Tokyo. People talk.” _Sempais_ talk, more like. “They have air conditioning, too.”

 

"Oh, thank god. I'll do some research, then." He _might_ already be typing up a new thread. "So…you're happy about transferring, right? No regrets?" Shit, _he's_ happy. He doesn't have to be _captain_ , _and_ he gets a boyfriend that's here.

 

“Hmph. What’s the point of regrets?” Not that there’s a little smile on his lips now, or anything. “My captain wasn’t even mad at me. Ah, Shiraishi won’t be angry at me for disrespecting his orders and making you captain, will he?” Now he has a whole _new_ set of people to disappoint.

 

"Shit, no. He'll be thrilled, I stress the ever living crap out of him. He gets all frantic and takes my phone away. You're not going to take my phone away, are you?"

 

“Why would I take your phone away?” Kaidou swallows, and breathes, and tries to breathe again before asking, “Would you...you could send me a picture of you. Just feels stupid that I don’t have one.”

 

"Ah, sure." Zaizen pushes his glasses up, and holds the phone away after switching it to camera mode. One V-sign later, and he texts it over. "Have at it." He _might_ already have a lot of pictures that he took when the opportunity struck. Whoops. "He always would take my phone away during practice. He'd steal my headphones, too--can you not ever do that, because I hate it." 

 

“As long as you obey orders, I don’t care what you do at practice,” Kaidou says, not entirely sure why he _should_ care--Shiraishi _does_ seem to be the particular sort. The phone beeps, and he checks the photo…

 

And nearly drops his phone.

 

A low hissing noise comes through the line, and he mutters darkly. “You should have taken a less cute one. Now I can’t concentrate on anything.”

 

"Sorry." He's not that sorry at all. Zaizen _might_ be smirking triumphantly to himself. "Is it the glasses? Koharu says they're a charm point."

 

“It’s just you. The pose isn’t helping either!” Another hiss, and Kaidou’s legs tuck up towards his chest. “Stupid Osaka.” Who came up with the idea of distance, anyway?

 

"Stupid Tokyo. No, wait, I like Tokyo." Zaizen sighs, flopping backwards again. "Take a picture of a cute dog for me, will you? Then it'll…feel like I'm in the park or something, I dunno." Gay. Homo. _So_ gay. Fuck, he's so gay, and that's saying something, because he would do a chick. He'd do _Kaidou_ if he were a chick. But he's still _so gay_ right now. 

 

“Yeah. Just a second.” Cute dog sighted. Ugh, even better, it’s two cute dogs being walked by the same man, one large and fluffy and the other small and jumpy. Yeah. Perfect.

 

He snaps the photo, and sends it. After a moment, he says, “If you were here, we could bring my sempai’s dog down here and play. He doesn’t mind if I walk her sometimes.”

 

Shit, that's cute. Stupidly cute, and Zaizen groans, burying his face down into his knees. "I've never had pets," he admits. "But dogs are really cute. Cats, too. Kenya-sempai just has a weird-ass iguana…" 

 

“My brother has allergies. Tch, if I could get an apartment of my own I’d have pets. Dogs and cats and maybe a bun--er, a rabbit.” Nice save.

 

Zaizen is going to get him a goddamned bunny. If Kenya could keep a giant lizard in the dorms, a little rabbit isn't going to make much of a difference. "Yeah. That sounds good. Oh, hey, is Echizen staying in the dorms, too? Kintarou's been going on and on about the kid's stupid cat." 

 

“Dunno. Haven’t talked to him. Eh, I probably should. I guess he’s the one that asked Tezuka-buchou to write me that letter.” Kaidou’s face twitches. “He _does_ have a cute cat. Dark face. Big paws.” Yeah, he should go over later, just to say thank you.

 

"Uh huh." In the Google search box: _best pet store in osaka_. Shit, he's ruined. "He's probably not gonna be in the dorms with it if he's bringing it, then. Watch him get an apartment all by himself, lucky brat." 

 

“Luck doesn’t have anything to do with it when you have money. He lives in a _shrine_. Hold on, there’s an Akita.”

 

The phone rustles, and after a moment, Kaidou is back. “I sent you a picture of it. His name is Tomo-sama. I think he would like frisbee.” Zaizen is easy to talk to, and Kaidou looks down at his hands, not even awkwardly fiddling with the grass like they would be if he were talking to anyone else. Like this, he doesn’t even feel that burning need to jump up and run a few laps around the park.

 

Zaizen glances down at his phone when it beeps, and flips open the message. Ah, shit. Normally, he doesn't give a damn either way about animals, but when Kaidou talks about them, they're suddenly a dozen times cuter. "We've got a back yard, so I dunno why we never had pets. Probably because I'm too lazy to take care of them properly. My brother's got a dog, up in Ibaraki. My nephew rides it like a pony."

 

That makes Kaidou’s chest ache, and he groans a little. “If you ever want to get one,” he mutters, “I’d take care of it. You wouldn’t have to do a thing.” _Or if we ever got an apartment together_ \--yeah, he’s not going to say that. “Hey, what weekend do you want to come up? I’ll check with my dad tonight.”

 

"He's not gonna care if it's when school is going on, is he?" Zaizen flips open his calendar, making sure there's no tennis thing that he's forgotten. "Not this one…but the next, maybe." 

 

“Yeah, good.” At least he’ll have time to clean up. Sure, it’s clean now, but not like, having-people-over clean. “You wanna bring your racquet? I bet we could use a street court around here, or I could probably get us in at Seigaku if I asked. Or we could…” He swallows, and tracks the path of another Shiba. “Do not-tennis stuff.”

 

"We can do all the stuff." Dumb. He's so dumb. Jesus, he's a dumb homo. Zaizen inwardly groans at himself and flops his head forward into one hand. "Kaidou- _buchou_." 

 

Kaidou’s breathing stops for a second, and he sort of curls up on himself. “Oh.” He clears his throat, and realizes with horror, “You’re going to be calling me that….all the time. In public. Oh god.”

 

"Ah, whoops. I can just call you Kaidou, if you want." Damn, Zaizen kind of liked the Kaidou-buchou thing, though. "Maybe the other one's just better for bed…"

 

“No, no, I have to get used to it. Besides, I…” Kaidou clears his throat again--damn, he sounds like his grandfather like that. “I like it when you...there. When you called me Kaoru.” He buries his face in his hands, glad now that Zaizen can’t see him.

 

Kaidou is probably making some really fucking cute faces right now, and Zaizen is mad that he doesn't get to see. He needs to install cameras everywhere, clearly. "…Yeah, well. We'll just desensitize you to the other one, then. And Kaoru when no one's looking." 

 

“Yeah. That’s better.” Kaidou starts to say something else, but a young woman jogs by with a golden retriever. A second later, he mutters, close to the receiver, “I have to get out of public. If I talk to you anymore when you’re in that voice I won’t be able to get home.”

 

"Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to. Look at some cute dogs and I'll get back to my game." At least _he's_ home alone, and can casually go and jerk off to the idea of Kaidou's cute goddamned faces. "Don't forget to talk to your dad." 

 

“Yeah. I’ll text you.” That’s probably safer. He’s already thinking about how easy it’ll be to shove off some money onto Hazue when Zaizen’s here and send him to the arcade, and his parents _do_ always want to go to his grandmother’s on the weekends…

 

“Uh.” How does he hang up, again? “Later, Hikaru.” Nothing else. Not yet. Stupid. Ugh, he’s so stupid about Zaizen.

 

"Later, Kaoru." He's gonna have to seriously break that habit in public, isn't he. Damn. Maybe if he sends Kaidou a few pics for later, that'll make up for it. 

 

Dumb, dumb. At least they're _both_ really dumb.

 


	35. Rikkai

It's not _his_ fault that he can't stay away. 

 

All right, maybe it is. The thing is, Rikkai is so _close_ to the hospital, and being done with rehab and general checkups for the day places him in the area right at the time that afternoon club activities begin. 

 

They can't fault him on showing up even on a day that he's not supposed to be coaching. 

 

Well, Sanada might, but…he could try and be sneaky.

 

 _That worked so well the last time_ , Yukimura wryly notes, and sighs as he walks down the hill overlooking the tennis courts. The school added _more_ courts after their first Nationals victory, because they were so good, so _obviously_ ready to bring greatness to Rikkai… 

 

God, it's strange to think that by the end of it, he'll have only really spent a year and a half actually at this school. _So much for 'the three years we'll be here.'_

 

Unable to help himself--his feet just sort of make him _gravitate_ to a tennis court, he swears--Yukimura heads over, lingering outside of the cage. 

 

"Hey, Urayama!! Your movements still suck, get it together!" 

 

It's probably bad that his first thoughts about Kirihara chasing after someone using bastardized snarls of things he's said so frequently in the past is _oh no, he's so cute._

 

Sanada isn’t always the most observant man in the world--but it would take a stupider man than him to not see Yukimura Seiichi when that’s what he’s been dying to see all day. 

 

With a nod—that’s just as good as verbal assurance that Akaya is doing great, he’s sure—Sanada slips out of the senior’s area, stealing around the back of the fence as the soon-to-be-second-years struggle to return even the most basic serves, and most of the second-years sweat and curse their way through footwork.

 

He makes his way around the fence, raising an eyebrow, not that Yukimura will see it under his cap. “Come to see him all grown up?”

 

"Ahh, I'm caught," Yukimura sighs, smiling as he flops against the fence a bit. "Don't be mad. He's so cute, I couldn't help it. It seems like everyone's listening to him pretty well…still no decision about a vice captain yet, though, huh?" Not everyone can have someone like Sanada permanently attached to their hip, after all. 

 

“I’m not mad.” It’s hard to be, on such a nice day, and Sanada shifts a little closer, tugging on one stray lock of hair. “Someone gave him the stupid idea that if someone could be coach, president, _and_ captain, he could be both captain and vice captain.” He snorts. “It’s working about as well as you might expect.”

 

Yukimura winces at that. "Oh, that's no good at all. I'll have a talk with him." He fidgets. "Maybe not today. If he gets used to me coming on days that I'm not coaching, that won't be any good…" 

 

“Another day.” Sanada steps a little closer, but doesn’t put his arm around Yukimura. That wouldn’t do in public...and between them, that kind of thing is unnecessary anyway, and always has been. “Everything all right at the hospital?”

 

" _Apparently_ ," Yukimura drawls, his eyebrows lifting, "they think I should go up on mountains more often. They think I should go back immediately, actually, and for months." 

 

Sanada breathes a sigh of relief. “So I didn’t mess you up. I was afraid--but good, good.” He frowns, thinking. “I could probably get the leave of absence if I asked today, but maybe not until next week. I’ll get the homework done, of course, but they need to know I’m serious.”

 

"Don't be dumb!" Yukimura lightly smacks at his arm. "I'm not going up on the mountain again this soon! They were exaggerating, _exaggerating_. I'm not letting you of all people miss school because of me, that'd be… _unnatural._ Also, we can't leave Akaya like this, not right _now_." 

 

“Yukimura.” Sanada catches the slapping hand--still not out of his hitting mood, apparently--and looks him in the eye. “I would do anything if it meant having you with me for longer. Give up school, tennis, anything.”

 

Yukimura huffs, glancing away and tugging half-heartedly on his hand. "Don't be dumb," he repeats. "You don't have to give anything up. I'm doing better already, and I don't want to make going up there a _chore_. We'll go up on the next holiday or something, it'll be refreshing instead of _necessary_." He really does hate it when things are necessary.

 

Sanada squeezes, then releases. “Whatever you say.” He looks back at Kirihara, and rolls his eyes. “You’ll want to smack him, the next time you see him. He’s been using ‘ore-sama’ again. Thought we cured him of that.”

 

"Ah." 

 

Twitch. 

 

Well, there goes his last bit of self-control.

 

Yukimura calmly snatches Sanada's racquet out of his grasp, and his hat off of his head. " _Akaya!!"_ He does a _pretty good_ impression of Sanada, when necessary.

 

Kirihara bolts, Urayama cheers about getting a service ace off of him, and oh, it _is_ funny to watch Kirihara turn at least a million colors before settling on stark white. "Y…Yukimura-bu…um…ah…Yukimura-kantoku?" 

 

"What's this about 'ore-sama'? Do you know how classless that is?" Whoops, he's in the cage now, there's no turning back. "I'll show you greatness, you little rat, get over here--"

 

"Yukimura-buch…kaaantoku, it was just once or twice!" 

 

"Do you really want to play hit the baby today? You're _still_ the baby!"

 

"Noooooo!" 

 

"Ah, he has The Hat," Yagyuu mildly observes some distance away. "There's no turning back." 

 

“Stop moving,” Niou demands instantly, tugging Yagyuu back into position. “You’re my shade. Good shade doesn’t move.”

 

“I can be the baby today, Kirihara-buchou!” Urayama says, pathetically eager. “What’s the game?”

 

“Let him play, coach,” Marui calls, limbering up his arm just in case he really gets to hit someone today.

 

Jackal places a firm hand on Marui's shoulder. "Can you really justify hitting that thing? Just _look at him_ , he's so little." 

 

"Listen, Ca…coach, I've got this, I can use ore-sama and be _so cool_ about it--"

 

Yukimura smiles. "Urayama, go and get us a few balls, will you? You're always so good at that."

 

Kirihara turns whiter still. "W…why do you need balls? I--"

 

"Because I'm going to hit them at you until you can return them, or until you pick a vice captain."

 

"Y…Yanagi-sempai, h--"

 

"He's _graduating!"_ There's the first ball, straight to the chin.

 

Yanagi claps quietly in encouragement. “Choose wisely, Akaya!”

 

“Have you seen his hair?” Marui asks, gesturing to Urayama running rapidly back and forth, tucking balls into his shirt. “I could definitely hit it. Huh, he _is_ good at picking up balls. I figured Buchou was just throwing him a bone.”

 

“Here you go, Yukimura-kantoku!” Urayama’s eyes shine brightly as he dumps thirty or forty balls into the hopper.

 

“5,000 yen says he picks Urayama as vice-captain just because that’s the only name he can remember,” Niou mutters to Yagyuu, slinking further into his shade.

 

"To be fair," Yagyuu wearily admits, pushing up his glasses, "he's the only one I can remember on most days because of his hair." 

 

Jackal exhales a slow breath through his nose. "I want to shave it off," he quietly says, voice strained. "All of it." 

 

"Yanagi, move!" Yukimura flips Sanada's racquet around in his hand, shrugs, and promptly sends a twist serve right up into Kirihara's face.

 

"Ghhh--"

 

"Well?"

 

"I--"

 

"Captains need to be quick thinkers!" The next ball slams into his chest. 

 

" _Guh_ \-- _please_ , Yukimura-kantokuuu--"

 

" _Weak!"_ Yesss, that was another excellent Sanada impression, he's on _fire_ today.

 

Niou shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the worst idea. He did take a game off of Kuki Kiichi from Kakinoki.”

 

“Yukimura.” Sanada claps a heavy hand onto Yukimura’s shoulder. “Perhaps not in front of his kouhai. Leave him his dignity.” _What little there is of it._

 

Marui’s face falls. “Does that mean I don’t get to hit anyone?”

 

"Anyone that uses 'ore-sama' shouldn't be afforded dignity," Yukimura sniffs, but he doesn't shrug off Sanada's hand. 

 

"I've got this!" Kirihara suddenly announces, whirling on Urayama. "Oi, you! Change your hairstyle and you can be my vice captain!"

 

"Oooh, innovation," Yagyuu says, starting a polite golf clap. 

 

“That’s big talk from someone that owes me 5,000 yen,” Niou says, rubbing his head against Yagyuu’s thigh. One of these days, he’ll actually start collecting on those bets.

 

Urayama’s eyes nearly sparkle out of his head, and he drops immediately into several bouncy bows. “Y-yes, Kirihara-buchou!” 

 

He looks around desperately, then, not turning up any implements, takes a deep breath, sticks his fingers in his own hair, and ruffles furiously until the ice cream cone comes out. To his credit, he only cries a _little_. 

 

“Now tell him to stop wearing blush!” Marui calls.

 

"Oi, Bunta," Jackal hisses. "I think that's just his face!"

 

"I'll buy you more hair crunchifier," Yagyuu placatingly says, patting the top of Niou's head gingerly.

 

"There! See, I figured this out," Kirihara proudly announces, folding his arms over his chest. "I've got one hell of a handle on this team, don't I, Yukimura-kanto-- _guh_." Another ball hits him right in the gut. "But I picked a vice captain!!"

 

Yukimura shrugs impassively. "Sanada's racquet is fun."

 

Sanada plucks his racquet out of Yukimura’s hand. “I think that’s enough for right now,” he says sternly. He looks over at Urayama--and sort of sighs. He can’t exactly imagine the kid standing up to Kirihara when he goes too far. Then again, maybe they’ll all be surprised.

 

Maybe.

 

“Akaya! Send them back to practice!” He’s not doing much better for the whole let-him-have-his-dignity thing--but Kirihara isn’t doing a great job about looking like he deserves it, either.

 

Marui looks up at Yukimura, swinging his legs on the bench. “Yo, Buchou. How many cakes do you have leftover? Jackal is making me a shopping list.”

 

Yukimura takes Sanada's hat off, but doesn't return it as he trots over to the bench, plopping down next to Marui. "A few. I could have more. Strawberry, maybe?"

 

"R-right, right--everyone back to practice, you'll be running if you don't get back to work!" 

 

"He's _so_ cute," Yukimura sighs, squeezing the hat firmly. "Rikkai's management might be shaky for next year, but it's _awfully_ charming…"

 

“They’ll be fine.” Sanada isn’t so sure, but as vice-captain, even retired vice-captain, it’s his job to be sure. 

 

“Strawberry, yeah!” Marui nods to Jackal, the Holder of the List. “Mm, they’re gonna be good this time of year. Did you have any on The Mountain?” The capitalization is implied.

 

“No. Just flowers and some herbs for cooking.” Sanada still isn’t sure how he feels about everyone knowing about The Mountain, but at least no one knows _which_ mountain. That’s something, he supposes.

 

“Boss, tell Yaaaagyuu to hurry up and decide on Rikkai high. He’s stalling.”

 

Yanagi folds his long fingers, resting his chin delicately atop them and watching Kirihara lead, occasionally calling out advice. “Watch the left flank, Akaya.”

 

"Oh! Thanks, Yanagi-sempai!!"

 

Yukimura strangles down a few of his own bits and pieces of advice, and reminds himself repeatedly that he's not even supposed to be here today, and he _has_ to let Kirihara work on his own or he'll never get better. Deep breaths, deep breaths. "The rest of you are continuing into the high school division, aren't you? Then you obviously should, too, Yagyuu."

 

"I--"

 

" _Obviously_ ," Yukimura sweetly cuts him off. "What good are you all going to be if you can't snag a Nationals victory in high school?" 

 

“Your dad can’t possibly expect you to do better,” Niou mutters. “If there was anything better than Rikkai you’d have gone there for junior high, right?”

 

“Don’t be worried about the exams,” Marui agrees, slamming sideways into Yagyuu’s shoulder. “If Jackal can pass, you can pass.” He beams at Jackal.

 

“What are you waiting for?” Sanada demands. “If you don’t want to play tennis, just say so!”

 

"Oi! I did pretty well on the exams, Bunta!"

 

"Yaaagyyyyuuu," Yukimura wheedles, reaching over to snatch his glasses off and hand them to Marui while Yagyuu still sways from the force of Marui's weight slamming into him, "we're waiting for an _answer_."

 

"I--" Yagyuu sighs defeatedly, holding up his hands. "Fine, okay, okay. I was going to go there anyway, I just wanted to know that everyone else was going to go there, too." He huffs, self-consciously lifting a hand to push at his glasses before he awkwardly remembers that they're already gone. "…I didn't want to go somewhere that I didn't have any friends at," he mumbles underneath his breath.

 

"Sanada, hit him, he's being such a nerd right now." 

 

Sanada starts, but Marui pops up between him and Yagyuu. “Buchou, can I hit him? I’m _ready_.”

 

“Leave him alone, fatty,” Niou snarls, pinching Marui’s thigh.

 

“I’m going to hit all of you!” Sanada thunders.

 

“Chance of that happening is just under 22%,” Yanagi says mildly. “A few are runners.”

 

"Marui-kun, _please_ give me my glasses back." 

 

"What's with everyone being in such a hitting mood lately?" Jackal miserably puts in.

 

"It's good, I think!" Yukimura cheerfully hums. "Let's go play hit the baby and see what happens!"

 

"Please? I'd like to be able to _see_." 

 

Marui pops a bubble, and nearly tosses Yagyuu his glasses back before realizing that _duh_ , without them he probably can’t see them to catch them, and hands them back. Then he punches him in the shoulder for good measure. “Nerd.”

 

“Seiichi, I recommend that we allow Akaya to complete training before any hitting extracurriculars. It will improve his performance 19.29%.”

 

“You’re a nerd, too,” Sanada mutters.

 

“So are you.” Niou pokes Sanada with one shoe. “Perfect-grades-san.”

 

" _Fine_ , Renji, you're so lame." Yukimura yanks on Niou's rat tail. " _You_ get better grades than your nerdy boy toy." 

 

"At least Bunta and I aren't nerds," Jackal mutters underneath his breath. "Or Yukimura-buchou."

 

Yukimura beams.

 

"Ah, yes, startlingly average," Yagyuu grumbles, rubbing at his shoulder still. 

 

"Hey! I'm not average! Look, it was just _chemistry_ that I flunked out of." 

 

_If only I had had this for three years._

 

The thought occurs to Yukimura and almost makes his smile fade--until he looks out to the court, where Kirihara is ruling it with an iron fist (well, relatively). 

 

He'll be fine. More than fine. He'll be Rikkai's number one, no mistakes. 

 

_This was all still pretty damn good, though._

 

 

 


End file.
